They shall be counted with sticks, my praises,
and be self-aware and
grateful themselves,
my griefs,
for their bark-flesh and for their
wooden hearts.

A friend told me, All is the spirit of fire because
everything has the potential to burn.

They are kernels, my praises,
like rubies grown from
seed and sorrow,
shining even before they are harvested.
Their royal husks removed.

Two hundred and sixty dreams, a canvas of stars
a thirteen-spoked compass of too many tears unshed.
Dreams are like water
subject to heat and harmony, and
the mysterious blood-drenched moon.

All is set aflame at once: the delicate rolls of tobacco, headlights
emerging on the horizon,
the California pines and their innocent
baby pinecones, walkers and watchers
alike, dawns and dusks and all colors of flesh,
dripping with the sweet sap of lovers' sweat.

They will not be counted in seconds, my praises.
They won't be counted in minutes
my griefs
They will know only that they are ripe when they are swollen
to the touch
and begging in a sultry tongue to be plucked,
like the summer's last berries
awaiting frost.