holding three flowers
thinking only of the fourth
that lost its petals
*
valentines
in August, a heart-shaped
hole in the night
*
unfolding memories
trying to read through
the creases, the tears
*
staring at the aspen
all those living scars
so beautiful
*
another hole, another
hole, my wounds make it lovelier
this music
I think each humanness speaks with a different tongue, though their relatedness makes the piece whole. I’m especially attracted to the aspen haiku, because calling them “living scars” suits the trees so well, suits the humans so well, suits the poem so precisely. So beautiful, such a good line to close that irony.