in the apples that we eat,
and when we kiss between the bites,
our thoughts commingle,
wild sweet wine, the ichor of alive.
Gray horses leap beyond
the faint horizon line: the storm arrives.
And you lie back, your eyes a-swim, twin eggs of tears.
The years just bleed, and lead
so soon to death, you say.
Rain licks the heaped green platter
of the earth.
I've read that no one’s heart is evergreen,
that each burns red, then glows
a mellow gold: we learn about the world.
So take my hand and feel
the tree's firm fruit
that cools your angst,
the myriad leaves that kiss you oh-so-tenderly
in their descent.