Poem in the Interval of Not Knowing

Leaf by branch the trees bend toward the end
of summer; birds wing away from the sun.

When all of us are gone, the bees will still
spin in their honey-hives until orchards find

a different bride. Until then, pick each grief
with as much care as if it were fruit only needing

to ripen. When their skins soften and break like love
spilled open, then perhaps their hearts will speak.


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