dressed as a farmer,
reached its harvest hands
to pick the ripened apples of my love --
buds from seeds of rotten fruit
fallen from the tree of his adoration, last season;
they are now fragrant of countryside and
polished like freshwater pearls.
And in the rustic meadow of yesterday's memory,
white smoke billows from the chimney,
past the open window of my beloved's cozy cottage,
brushing against my intended’s hold
in our quiet comfort and
past the crackle of quivering flames
in the wrought iron fireplace, below
the corniced mantel shelf that is my heart,
shouldering picture frames of intentional smiles.
Tomorrow, he will read to me
from the crumpled love notes stored in his bedside table;
and the letters of his words will dance a pirouette
to the rhythm of his voice like Begichev‘s swans
above the thirsty pillow on the side of his bed.
I'll lay my head to rest, a violet quilt wrapped around my body
and the curls of my hair stretched out on his chest
like Chopin’s Fantaisie in F Minor.
H. Malheur © 2010