in a human form, we lose

Trees wither and we accept this loss
call it autumn, call it a death before a rebirth
our bodies wither too, but we call their losses
A birthday.

First rain

Tap
I close my eyes
while the first rain flirts with my window

I will answer you

Don't speak to me
I will answer you, you know

even when you leave chipping wood fire behind
I will answer you

you know, I cannot claim to know more than you
I will answer you, what you ask of me

even when the old curve of your slender body fails to fit near mine
I will answer you

this is the state of those who wait
they keep answering even if the lines were cut

An easy afternoon

What do you call this-
indentations of the wind on a summer day
a hiccup with how we feel
an easy afternoon

Release of the dead

How do trees grieve their daughters
little leaves, getting sicker with autumn
never able to protect them against the ill wind

how can you grieve something
that has died, the plant on your window, for instance
you thank your wits for not buying that goldfish

no woman should rely on a man for feeding
when you are part feeder, part fed
you turn to yourself, stare

at the hair, released, shorter
the death, apparent on your skin ever day
even with these uneven lines

nothing stops grief when it hits
not the wind that turns the leaves yellow
not the same wind that toggles with your hair

this is why, atop the mountain filling with old trees
you release, dead, the locks of hair,
his memory and old tree leaves,
everything deserves a burial

There is a song about birds

There is a song about birds
how their feathers become collectibles
how they fly away from danger

it is all usual, love
we are used to this relation: a bird, a sky, a flight ahead

there is this song about birds
a winged freedom, as if, only by experiencing the clouds
will we be able to appreciate the mud and stone

it is all usual, love
but I am not that generous with you,

no feather, fallen, silver on its edges
a little darkened with a winter sown
breeze, that tangles our hair too

it is all usual, love
that there is a song about birds

it starts with a soft whistle and echos
of flight, of being light, of letting go, love

Zahret Narr

Narr
is also fire, is yellow and orange glowing from the same
log of wood we threw and set aflame

Zaher
is rose and is pink, it is both senses in one place
that a gradation of pink petals can fall on your face

Zahret Narr
a flower of fire
a flower from fire
a firey flower

flower razed by fire

Protea,
it is called, one that dies
for fire and is reborn from fire

Protea,
Zahret Narr
a flower is fire

fire is a flower
protecting, those who fight in fire
to see flowers, bloom again.

courtesy of Google image search