Today, poetry is in my bones--
words reverberating against flesh,
holding up my body
through ribcage and skull.
I am a skeleton of sonnets.
If you were to cut me open,
verse would flow out:
I stain pages with ink-splot blood.

The kettle catcalls me from across the room,
liquid love cradled in its hollow stomach.
Poured into a mug,
it is joined by a tasty tea-leaved companion.
Together they smile,
content in the morning.

My face is assaulted
with the shivers of the autumn wind
(unrelenting and quiet,
brisk sandpaper in motion)
and I am shaking all over,
fingers rustling like leaves,
seeing your footsteps scatter
as I try to breathe

It is not afternoon without tea
                             she declares
fingers hugging the warm mug

It is not afternoon without tea
                             she declares
fingers hugging the warm mug

Whisperings of rain
mingle with the muddy lake
as I watch the ducks

I am drawn to the
twisted branches of the apple tree
beside your left cheek--
arms intertwining,
gnarled with age and wear,
splattered with the paint of the sun.
The tendrils are
fingers grasping,
hands interlocking,
against the pale sky.