The artichoke has gone to spines.
The window sees only a whisper
of last night’s rain. The ladder
leaning on the apple tree
has long been taken down.
The window sees only a whisper
of last night’s rain. The ladder
leaning on the apple tree
has long been taken down.
Do you remember harvest?
Did you adore the apple, ashes
beneath its rosy skin? I watched
as you bit into it, let the juice
run down your chin.
Backyard grapevines, gnarled
and grey, a winter afternoon.
Between the house and the road
that leads away, absence
grows like knotweed.
