Whisper 


There’s a whisper of sadness in the crisp November air;

solemn raindrops adorn the bare tree branches 

like bejewelled tears.

The sun peaks out and smiles wanly

at the confused pink flowers 

which have emerged so late in the day…

How soon will the cold kill them,

turning their girlish blush into brown rot?

Memories creep closer like Christmas.

Loss hangs at the back of my throat—

waiting to pounce!

Song of the Purple Plum

  
Fall is coming.

The leaves blush crimson

and purple plums swell;

their dark bloom 

splits open sweet flesh 

and reveals the kernel of new life inside.

And so my round belly will 

swell, blossom, bloom

and I’ll split open 

revealing the flesh of my flesh

bone of my bone

seed of my hope

fruit of my love…

And from my fragile flesh—

my heart split open—

the seed of new life be nourished

and a new tree will grow.