For the women clutching reeds, leavened bread and precious wine,
may there be many birds casting seeds through the wind.
May each meal be wild with honey melting on the soft muscle
of your tongue.

I am writing for time, clarity, the lucidity of parsed
moments. I am writing to leave a small fossil that
says I lived pressed into the medium that killed me.

Unleaf yourself beneath the Bois d’arc tree and let my chisel-tongue inscribe your bloom with glyphs, the cuneiform for vine and grape.

I remember seeing a golden tree out a third-floor window of a college building and not being able to move, turned to gold myself by its arresting beauty. Yes, I wrote a poem about it, and it was in the college literary magazine, also solidifying for me the connection between poetry & beauty.

To knead the breath of a single olive shoot
is the scent of silver-green,
cerulean winds toting Aegean brine

upon their tendrils,
your thirst for weeping sea
mixing memory with dreams devouring.

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