to anne

it is a thin realm of shadow
seperating me from the light

sitting in an old, decrepit chair
stripped of all varnish and artificial colors,
i think the chair is more sincere now that
his skin cracked and parched
spills below me.

my plants doze and mimic its neighbors
a subtle wind tangling the strings
a measure incised and removed from distant chords.

the fig tree branches out
coveting and cradling dead limbs
a firework of numbers explode
in the diameter of leaf to leaf.

my apples hang prosaic
whispering autumn tales
the gossip of worms and beetles
leaves and bark cover the ground
in a maternal affection.

i enjoy these green days when
my roots search for deeper waters.