Poetry

Some things are not said, 
uncoupling the cut glass. 
Flowers will not come 
from the new moon. 
 
You collect the hundred 
loops from your hair, 
and part the heat. An 
ancestor turns in his grave. 
 
Collect the grapes, fallen 
plums from my garden. 
I am not sure, how long the 
spring stays. You were 
not ready for the 
rocks, for sure. 
 
I am scraping the song 
written for a tree. 
Cannot decipher the sap.