I see you in the warm corners
in the rows of fruiting trees.
You spoke to me softly
in those dim memories.
I hung from your strong branches
and felt the softness in your knees.
The tree is long gone from our world.
Its burl is a piano just slightly out-of-tune
playing chopsticks with four hands,
and the smell of decomposing oranges
marking the passage of time
so I won’t forget.
You were gone before I knew that things could go,
yet the smell of ivory soap
calls you from the grave
to speak to me in hushed tones
urging me
to go outside and play.
Last updated on 05-Sep-2026.