The Harvest

When you take me into your arms, I throw back words, spitting adjudications. I wear black and gold in the daytime and nothing at night. No light penetrates this ache; it splinters the trees as they shake and break and everything goes dark.

I climb mountains with a dead man. I carry him in my mind and he carries me home, the way a mother delivers her child towards birth or sleep, gently rocking. We are two atoms, slow-dancing towards a setting sun, colliding, coalescing, dissolving, dividing, energy-releasing. What beautiful things we made in sleep before death, when the waters were teeming with green. Our fingers divined what our heads could not, and in that moment we were suspended and breathless. I was a child again, you were a child again, and with our mouths we formed our first vowels, softly blooming. 

I am wet and speechless now, standing in the garden, caught between a word and an action. What my hands have planted I will leave, and reap the harvest of our folly. 

 

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