Portrait in Fall, with Particle and Seed

As in to cleave, to render in two
or more that which formerly was
one: as in we used to share the same
body, remember? One stretch of flesh
wrapped around our unchambered heart,
these limbs that windmilled around
each other in a box before the green
garden gate unlatched. I am still
afraid of rodents and snakes, of the way
they spit out the bitter seed but blame
the world for the first mouthful of desire
and its disappointing, cottony after-
taste. Now it's fall again, and nature
dramatizes with its red and gold
the universal crisis of impermanence.
The glue that held summer to the tree
and the tree to each plump fruit
thins and purples in the shade.
Apiaries begin to quietly empty
their cells of drones to make
more room for winter stores. Every
story sheds layer upon layer of warm
skin until all that's left is the cold,
hard stone of its original seeking. As in
to parse sugar from the rind, pulp
from the seed which, when dried,
might be given back with purpose
to the soil from which it came.



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