Friday, October 2, 2015

Keening Valentine

At night I put fresh water out
for the birds’ early morning baths
and sweep the dim or moonlit paths
of today’s leftover leaves and doubt
with brief pauses to smell
the desert roses their’s
a strictly intellectual scent
with undertones of irony and mint
in the colors of fresh wounds
how can I ever thank them enough
for being here with me in the dark
with their last offerings before
cold nights pull them back underground
I sit for a while with the dead grass
keening and the new grass singing
just to enjoy their lovemaking sounds

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