(Rebecca's poem to me)
A better place to be
Rests at the top of the trees
Where white cotton shades the leaves
And tells them to pass
It on until they wrinkle dry,
And follow the breeze to exactly the place
They needed to be.
Where the wind blows burdens south,
And leaces a crinkly cushion
For aimless soles smashing fruits
Into wine from the trees.
A poetic response to a poem my friend, Rebecca, wrote me since I've been overseas…
Calloused labor, stained old wine,
Sweat flows down fool's ridges,
Salt shields paned windows,
Settling into damp corners.
Upon new day, joy kisses blistered hands,
Fruits of agony rot into toiled soil,
His grape's rivers stream across parched tongues.
Haze fades to pure like fog leaving her ocean.
