Often, my poetry, like my thoughts,
descends into clutter,
much as a pond overstuffed with Kai
- brilliant flashes of vibrant orange,
but mostly the murky thrush
of indiscernible forms, beating against
another in circles.

find a path back to simplicity,
the first biting cedar scent of autumn,
flowers reposed with frost,
and the sight of our breath
converging like two rivers in winter,
bedded in ice, and slow

There is much I want to say,
remember: there is time,
and the alluvial plane of your face,
the empty flats of winter,
hollows of warmth beneath snow,
your glacial eyes.

But all that can wait.
There are not words in your language,
or mine,
equal to the beauty of walking with you,
lingering amongst autumn’s first chilly chords
thinking of winter,
waning light, perhaps dying,
but mostly how close my hand
can come to yours
without you noticing.