"Go ahead, Lord, break our harp.
We have thousands upon thousands of harps."
~ Rumi
They hang in clusters of russet and gold. Or belled
in orchards, blushed like pear or hachiya persimmon.
Branches bend and the ground receives the weight
they cannot hold. We pick these up too, and save
their impatient sweetness. In our houses, splintered
and blackened boards must be sanded down again
and made smooth. Not all of the season's cold has entered,
and so the grass has not quite stopped growing. In the bowl,
bananas that were bruised from ripening were sifted
with flour and sugar and egg. What rose in the heat
of the oven was a transfiguration. Resisting his attacker,
a wounded pilot maneuvered the cockpit door open
as the plane plummeted 17,000 feet in under two minues.
Silence refused to take a seat. Ruin refused a victory.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
