Again this call
to love the world—
though there are men
with buttons to push
who could turn it to ash
within hours, though
people have tongues
that fork and curl,
though the things
and beings we love most
disappear.
And still this sweet
metronome of breath
ticking here, here.
And the scent
of the leaf pile,
loamy and playful.
And the pansy in October
still purple and soft.
Turn to the sun,
let it touch your skin
like a lover, so tender,
warm. Now spread that shine.
It’s what we do.