There is so much to adore, it is late August &
the fig tree has begun to bear its fruit.
I am awake in what I love & desire;
just like the fig, the oaks next to the stream
with tangled watercress-swallowed in
the nibbled wax work of the creek
-the scandal of all its bathing.
The landscape weaves itself delirious
with all of the obsessive play:
through the earth up
to the pinch & pump of stars-
the sun in the sky changing the pulp
of canyonside shadow-lawn membrane thick
in roses-moss crusted between soil & the dark
places it touches-
My mother looks out the window & tears
the fig skin apart with her thumbnail, peels
the fruit from the skin with her teeth.
Puneet rings the door bell to offer a plate
of eggplant & samosas. We share the meal
drinking wine & passing the long tumble of autumn.
The loneliness that is allowed to slip in
& numb the edges of our fingertips.
The loneliness that settles every year
a little deeper in my bones each fall.
He plays old songs we've written
on his guitar, as I collage from
National Geographics. Harvesting the ruins-