I wanted the taste of bitter greens,
of luck that fruited despite the unforgiving soil—
I wanted the smell of cotton in my hair
from pillows woven in the sun—
I wanted the surprising tang of salt,
bursting from tiny clusters of sea-grapes—
I wanted the cloying abundance of scent
spilled from flowers that only bloom at night—
I wanted the scab on my elbows to peel
when they darkened like the skin of plums—
But only the maples redden here, rehearsing
starkness; then drop away with all
that’s brittle, feathered, frail-boned.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.