07 Apr 2026: Grammy

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.