often my kindness
seems made out of raindrops
splashing against an abandon barn.
As i think backwards,
becomes sparse like the fish
the spaces of my friday dreams.
without a lover
ones does not blush pleasure
or share the paleness of ones skin.
Nor brush against anotherís body
caress the comb of their ribs.
The fruit of my words
in anotherís flesh.
How apples become lonesome
without a suggestion to fall from.
Lips to touch against.
i wear a crown of falling leaves
i without rootóshriveling
as you read the old farmerís almanac;
and learn the potency you desire,
can deliver comfort
to the roof of your desire.