too many to count
petals on the orchard floor
he loves me?
*
rusted lock
in the heart’s back pocket
a spare key
*
snow on the ridges
come spring what else
will be missing?
*
almost asleep
these hands still kneading
soft dough
*
he talks
and talks and talks and talks
about listening
*
no temple bells
still the crow goes on
about awe, awe
