Harvest

20191217_135208

 

A midriff lay slumped on a chair.

The spine an adage of another existence.

Crumps and foils have been cleared away.

Breakfast long served before the bell breaks

again, 

another blush of coral in a vase, like

a little child screaming for that what it knows not. 

As always.

The sun has esteemed our resilience. Idyllic fair-weather uncle.

The soil has been trowelled for him to feast and

lush worms exposed in their hideouts.

Little sylphs of the earth, mopping up the dried salt

of this frosted mud.

I lay a bulb, inch apart, and hoped for some gross vanity 

as spring disrupts into shoots and roots entangle the mess that we call life.

I let the water flow out wondering what it would taste like. A drink of brine inside. 

A tongue for foregone rains. Outside.

A silent robin looked around, perching its hunger on a barren branch.

 

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