Poetry

Inviting yourself
for a kiss of wasp?

This was a hidden mood.

Being yourself,
you were insulting someone,
my poems, my theology.

Touching trees,
one by one, searching your
name on every leaf.

O God of half eaten
breads, why do you lie
on the petals only?

The tears fall
was becoming louder.
Frozen eyes are starting a
meltdown.

Where would you live
in autumn?