late fruit

it's my fault
the blue dahlia
is blooming late

its ripe goddess bulk
leaning on stilts
into the near-frost nights

and yesterday
they rolled away
my entire house
in four dumpsters

my fault, naturally

that the trees are, finally
down
after a day-long barrage
of men, ropes, and saws

and my fault, now
in this late light

that the mountains
glow golden
into the blue distance

over fallen logs
past a shimmer of creek
not seen

in that lush season
of rotting beams,
misplaced flower bulbs,
moss in the mind

heartwood

creators of flames

your body is perfect in the dark

beneath
that blind overbearing bark
is green tenderness
unscarred

and I sense

in the gentle turbulence
of sleep
the earth's rosin
rising

crevasses widening

as if lightning split
or a match lit
inside the shredded heartwood
dry as tinder

waiting for the crisp wind

of dawn
you and I
creators
of flames