Apricot Press

Don’t do it. You know better. 
Ah, but what about this: 

well, love is the two ducks waddling 
together through the grandma’s backyard— 
this is their fifth anniversary you see. 
Every year they return and together eat 
a gourmet dinner of bread and seed. 

No, love is actually the plum trees 
where the ducks settle into shade, 
watching two sisters race 
to the top, purple fruit splatting 
on grass like sticky fireworks. 

Or, no, love is the grandma with her 
laughter like rain without the gray 
or a small family’s joy loud 
enough to fuel the jets leaving 
billowing streams in the sky. 

But truly, love is the two ducks 
that have waddled together through 
many stinky ponds and questionable 
parenting choices—their little webbed feet 
confidently plodding along. I wonder now: 
what do I know of love that the ducks 
haven’t already discovered?

Stars and campfire smoke 
are inseparable. You could try 
but smoke has a way of 
turning and twisting and going 
up and up and— 

Wrinkled hands point, 
just there, at Cygnus. 
Excitement in the spin of 
a wheel of constellations. 
Paper matching sky. 

Except the smoke tangling 
around galaxy-spotted feathers. 

My grandpa always loved stars. 
He counted them. 

It’s too late to wonder 
if he counted birds too. 
But, I know, on the patio 
there is still a grease stain 

where he gave the finches 
left-over hash browns. 
An All-American Diet. 
Only the best for his visitors. 

And I know that he smiled 
when I told him how many 
birds I'd counted in the sky.

Photo credit: Miguel Alcântara