Pieces

There are
no Seasons
to hold onto;
ask The Rose.

I can smell the
spicy freshness of Fall,
hovering above my lips…
before kissing the
pink of Summer goodbye.

There is
no cheapness
in the love of Seasons.

We strip down,
when all the petals have blown;
falling into
the rest of our lives.

Ask The Rose
about Winter,
ask the bird that sits
at the side of our grave
eating the seeds of rose hips.

Somehow,
somewhere…
growing again
into the depths
of Spring, into
the Seasons of our lives;
our skin and bones.

Push

The fever comes,
right before the sun
stains the sky red,
and the birds sing
unconditionally to
the waking sun.

No words of grander
force their song,
nor does the cool air
of the night… break the heat
that runs through my body.

I was born at four am;
silent and blue.
Maybe the birds spoke for me,
maybe the sky… pushed the blood
through my veins;

Into a sapphire September,
into the wake of the sun.