You inhabited me for weeks like an illness
and the fever demanded sustenance
and I fed it wild apples and blackberries,
spring water and dew, summer’s ambrosia
sating me, sating you
until the fever broke.
Scatter the poppy seeds in November
when the cold kills everything:
my friend offers me a slim envelope
of tiny black dots, light as dead insects.
Our faith is imagining a bed of bright petals
blooming out of this austerity, Continue reading “Wild Cider | Diana Whitney”