for Linda
Our table holds its share of broken bread,
rituals old as trust, our gift of early fire.
Still, I long for rain, wild winds dancing
about the ear, even as pages of fixed light
rule our louvered windows.
The sea grape colors in this picture,
framed now into words, a gift maybe
when you awake, or to remain folded
until you hear it read aloud
at some unimportant gathering.
You will forgive my pretentious similes,
ignore the neutered nouns,
emotions in low relief, masking my distress
over our subtle distances,
hours lost, already spent, the silence
I have left unwritten between lines.
The flowering fruit bowl, with its clutch
of bruised bananas, understands.
Its green hills of mangoes endure
beside sweet knots of red plums.
We must enjoy all of these, soon,
down to their impenetrable core,
even as oranges wait
in hope of further ripening.