I have to wring out the light.
The fact that this love will one day leave
me empty is not enough to stop me
from speaking soft words into
the rough bark of trees.
Weekends will still find me bent over
the lighted glass sorting seeds the size
of pepper grains,
my hands transformed into spring grass
in a long forgotten field,
swaying and dipping, beholden
to nothing, certainly not the face
of a ticking clock.
Some evenings, long after the watering
and weeding have been done, I will wrap myself
in silence and watch the stars
above my crumbling adobe house
and it will feel like
the very definition of abundance.