Morning Toast

We wander and weave through a labyrinth

of trees, treading stone and dirt footpaths

 

with fingers entangled, like the roots

of the trees that border this path

 

on either side, the trees whose branches

stretch and reach and grab at the heavy night sky.

 

Our arms and legs, like wooden limbs,

feeling and tearing and stretching�"up

 

and for one another. We roll in the grass,

in the field�"open and bright, massive

 

with stars spread thick like the butter

spread on the toast we will eat in the morning.

 

When you wake up first, your hand

will be on my hip and my lips

 

will be pressed against and under

where your ear meets your neck,

 

like the spot where the branches sprout

from trees. You’ll trace the curve of my face

 

while I’m still asleep and think of the rings

of the oak stump you circled with the same finger

 

last night. You told me it was old.

At least decades, you said. And tomorrow

 

in the morning, you will think of the lines

we’ll have in time, like that oak stump,

 

to prove our age and wisdom. Our skin

will spread and sag like moss

 

drooping down from the branches

of these trees, the trees we weave between

 

tonight under the moon, shining�"yellow

as the butter spread on the toast we will eat

 

in the morning. And before I wake up,

you will know our time is now.

Reviews

[Luke Ritta]

nice poem..loved the last stanza.

also love the beats and lynch....i think i am going to like your writing:)