This is our end of season in the food forest.
Bitter apple. Fairytale fungus. Spores so dry
they fly and impregnate everything nearby
but us. These are the pivotal places. Leaves drop
loud. Everything burns. Autumn sugars in
on itself. Concentrated sun. Jam on trees.
A deep Gulf Island cum. Spring is scented for
courtship. Summers want wet. Winters lie in
wait, yearning. We make deep criminal love
from far away. Inside. The Cabin. The Heart.
Soft. Because we know this will be our last
flame gone out as if we were not Lovers
recovered as fire to smoke into air breath into
body absorbed into blood energy of muscles
pushed to exhaustion as if we had not just
begun inside Nature. These are the cutting
times. The fear of amputation. Fall. The slow
wood fire. Galiano Island never ends. Even ash
holds evidence in wind of our first Aegean
meeting. Fresh tomato, olive oil, broken bread
and Turkish tea beneath the Bozcaada
sycamore. These are small cremations now.
Slow. With intent. A forced dying. You
approach from the east and I the west. We walk
the path raw. Our very own Silk Road toward
you will find the river again.
Rocks at the edge will re-emerge
like loaves of bread salvaged from your freezer.