The wild white heat of the sun's son thuds in the blood, shimmers in the heart of the mind: But the taste of the bud's fruition is bitter on tongue tip, like hope tasted too young. These meagre fruits were all there are. All. What should such harvest mean? Oh friend, the gloss of leaves, all plump and rich and perfect like our speech, our soul's exchange, presages death. The drying, and the turning down, foretells the fall. Long is the journey in the winter dark. I hold the first of harvest in my single palm: I toll the fading sun. For this frail family in the rough, there may not be 'enough'.
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The
Nexus Collection
ALYS COLUMBINE
TRYPTICH
Futility
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POEMS
FOR FORT WORTH
