A Cargo of Green Hearts
I am waiting for the last leaf
to fall a turn of the twig the
sound of the frost cracking its
white knuckles. the leaf
will lie on its back a jot of blood
on a drab field and the sun
taking notice will abruptly set.
I wait for this every year
the way an astronomer waits
for a star to die and reflexively
holds out his hands
as if to catch a falling child.
who hasn't done the same
when love fails? by November
I will be three quarters full of
wing-broke birds and making room
for more. Durga, you did not tell me
about this sort of waiting. you did not
warn me of all the things that will
fall through my hands.
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