There is a treeI always pass on the way home.
I watch it constantly
waiting to see if and how
The reds of autumnremind me, almost, of
burnt pumpkin seeds --
salted, splitting them cautiously
a crack resounding
in the head, signaling sweet seed.
Also time. Also darker greens.
A life of falling, nothing ever lost.
Once I confused your argyle sweater
for the pattern of my life.
I stole it, brown, cashmere,
the crack of fallen leaves
that weren't dry in the first place.
It's the dirt that was.
That's what we really stepped on.
Monday, May 5, 2008
El barro no esta revuelto
Posted by Reading the District at 5:47 PM