pukes his leaves
in crimson, orange and gold
but he doesn't leave
he doesn't age or grow old

I can swing from him on a tire
build my house upon his limbs
And of him I'll never tire

He's rooted in my soil
green as spring
like the robin he sings
whose image you cannot soil

are for birds
scraps
for a dog
the milk

turned
to curds
the air
into smog

this house
splintered
the yard
gone to seed

this bond
overwintered
and now
it is freed

drip of the lip
of the faucet. He's sagacious
to not cross it. Dewy drops of
pearls plink forming beads

of sweat in the kitchen
sink. It looks like morning
dew. Smells of ocean
mist.  But won't fill up my

coffee cup of grist.  Straining
to release it plops down next to
last night's dinner grease. And swirling
like a van Gogh. Water and oil

looking like a doily mama
used to sew. If I set this on canvas
I'd hang it on the wall or wrap it all
around me like nana's crocheted shawl.

in me before you were weak
at the knee. They were hairline
to begin before you were up to your
chin. The pieces separated

and broke off. Before I held water
like that of a trough. And now I am gushing
like a dam that collapsed. And even so,
after all this time lapsed!

ball. He'd bounce me up
and down and off the wall. Up to
a cornflower sky, so high I saw
my arms as wings that flap and

fly. But I took a nosedive
as I crashed down, hitting
the ground with such force like
a train wreck off course. He,

the magician juggling
my broken pieces up in starburst
air. This rubber ball had edges now
more like a square. I took my pieces

and left his garage. Boarded a plane
for a Caribbean plage. I'll not bounce
again. No up and down for some class
clown. I'll sing as willow wren.

and he cinder,
ashes to my pyre. A match
that not catch fire. A grey
cold lump of coal

was he, a roll around
crunchy'crimson fallen
leaves. Billowing smoke stung
the air. Bleeding lips kiss

to bare.  Pressing breast
bone. Dead eyes don't
blink. They stare into a cornflower
sky. Body limp as noodles

in my Pad Thai. The burn to
ignite to ashes holed up in a urn
was my oversight!  Next time
I'll learn not to be smite.

the pieces splitting
become parts of their own,
each with a tongue
and a backbone. The jagged

edges are my sharps
that I pluck as the steel strings
of a harp. This music I dance
over the page. All the pieces

pulchritudinously engage! Crystal
snowflakes embound. A brilliant
diamond in the round. Like a mosiac
of colored tiles I wear it as

my father's grey and red
argyles. I fine tune this craft
out of broken splinters
and built me a raft!