You and I sat with red wine—
Matahiwi pinot noir—
the afternoon sun at our backs.

Light reflects off the wine glass,
casting a reddish hue
that blushes the black tablecloth.

We feel the lull of
romantic whimsy
seducing our internal dialogue.

I remark on the divinity
of light and the auras that glowed
above saint’s heads in stained glass windows.

You counter my thoughts
reciting William Carlos Williams’
‘Autumn.’—“A stand of people by an open grave…”

I add “…underneath the heavy leaves,”
to which you slink
further into the sofa in a lavish shape.

Outside the distant hiss
of traffic reminds me
that it is five and the washing needs to be brought in.

You mention, “We could leave it for tomorrow,”
and I nearly agree,
only who knows what the weather will bring?

Summer is ending.
I slip outside to pull at pegs and tug at clothes, while inside
you wait for autumn to arrive.

They all left, one
by one. The smile,
the handshake, the afternoon light
draped across
the aged turquoise carpet.
I slumped over
in a black leather sofa,
counting food crumbs
littered
on the floor—a galaxy of pie crust.
Transient and changing
from one form to another.
How quiet it is when even the birds
leave their nests,
a mess of sticks and grass
exposed in the ceiling.
They had all left me
alone, with silent radios
where voices exploded through static,
now absent and no longer filling
this room that years ago
used to be a chapel.
No pews, no pulpit, the lectern
sold for scrap wood, just an agnostic
unsure of divinity, or if
the universe will ever reveal itself
in true form.
I look toward an open door
with renewed hope,
I know North, and
can fly from the southern winds—
turning away from bitter cold.

I watch mountains drink
                        the sky, its burden
of purple and cold steel
                        blues bulge.
Overflow of thirst
                        for newness. Anaesthetise
stinging nettles of old
                        pain. Still yearning
I look up and see
                        God in nature —
the mother whose round hips
                        I swim to and clutch
when sky mirrors
                        the sea
and storms, I am afraid of disappearing
                        at the very edges.
I seek calmness in quiet —
                        mother hushes with her scent —
pinecones and kawakawa.
                        I saw the mountains
drink the milk of the mother.

Juice runs down young chins. The drip of spring dew, dancing on tongues. Equal
measures of sour and saccharine syrup. Our brash youth. Hands grab greedy flesh
in soft teeth. A delicious snarl. We dare to take more. To reach among the leaves.
Pluck as many maroon planets before the eye of God catches us. He will scald us.
Chastise bold avarice. But how can we turn away from that golden taste? Delight
young bodies, feverous and candied. Sumptuous plump bellies. Curved and
dreaming with our heads in the tree.