365 Days

Grateful for fall but I 

miss the smell of milkweed.

Aphids gnaw sweet fruit

greedy scavengers of

sunsets and warm rains

fuller than the top knuckle of 

your pinky finger, rich with

summer’s bounty.

Breezes send blessings against

the napes of our necks

moving like chills over

sweat-soaked hairlines.

Shirtless and ripe, we

count the seconds pass as

we die. Our pink faces

mirror the crescent of sky

hugging the treetops.

The days are short and you

don’t speak – but I hear you

How many breaths until morning?

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