This is the end of season in the food forest. Bitter apple. Fairytale fungus.

Spores so dry they fly and impregnate everything nearby but us.
These are pivotal places. Leaves drop loud. Everything burns.

Autumn sugars in on itself. Concentrated sun. Jam on trees. A deep Gulf Island cum.
Spring is scented for courtship. Summers want wet. Winters lie in wait, yearning.

We make deep criminal love from far away. Inside. The Cabin. The Heart. Soft.

Because we know this will be our last.
Flame gone out as if we were not Lovers. Recovered as fire to smoke into air.

Breath into body absorbed into blood. Energy of muscles pushed to exhaustion

As if we had not just begun inside Nature.
These are the cutting times. Fear of amputation. Fall, the slow wood fire.

It never goes out. Even ash holds evidence in wind. Our Aegean meeting.

Fresh tomato, olive oil, broken bread and Turkish tea beneath the sycamore.
These are small cremations now. Slow. With intent. A forced ending.

You approach from the east and I, the west. We walk the path raw.

Our very own Silk Road toward separation.