gmo

it is finally quiet

still

the ordnance all quartered

their master gently snores

and i grow tired of war so

quickly back to the fresh

fruit so wonderful this year

given the fabulous summer

one should be grateful for

the gifts of the land of the

sweet earth which drips from

our lips and tongue exploding

in harvested rainbows before

winter’s deadly breath returns

the most cruel of jokes

is the one where we allow

ourselves to become adapted

that we don’t kick and scream

at the waning daylight we do

not cry with the first bitter chill

caught on a late august night

when all else seems right feels

right for once time stops and

catches in the back of your

throat along with a list of wishes

forgotten after the candles

go out and different beds are

made and summarily slept in

amid dreams of stoneless plums

evolving in the tree out back

the one with the swing