semi-opaque fragrance of
orange leaves ripped from
dying trees and the nights are
still enough for silence to seep through
the pores of this planet and we are
Overwhelmed.
(the way the a.m. air slaps us in the face)
the wind is screaming, frightened of the
winter skies falling, smothering the
breath and beat and rhythm and
the sighing of unwinding roots is
deafening, far beyond our
Ultraviolet dreams.
(capture the horizon on the tip of every finger)
but in the quiet between earth-breathing is
the desperate whisper of archaic spirits,
blending as willows, as white noise, and
H u s h .
this is where we will not speak of
memories and time and love
the way the Hollow grows inside
until there is just enough room for two.
(we will hide here until spring)
weaving lilting, ambiguous words of
death and ever sleeping, everlasting in
the way we let the letters decay
somewhere between our hearts and our tongues,
believing the futility of insisting we
could ever be so wise to sleep beneath the
Cinnamon sky.