by A.M. Clarke
in summer
we sit in the branches
picking leaves
from the strands
of our hair
we break the stems
and touch
the bleeding tips
to our tongues
quietly
the fruit falls
aging in the soft
shoulder of the ground
flies gather
eating life
before the ending day
summer fails
gathers
and fails again
new grass
grows
crowded against
the wooden fence
my mother
kills the fig tree
branches fall
-old weight breaking
into waiting hands
the sun
warms
an empty space
morning begins
with the ache
of a new flower
shadows move
liquid beneath
the shifting leaves
sunlight through
green paper
