Yellow

Yellow

While you're not here, I'd love to say
the pine cones won't grow. But the truth
is, they've already fallen twice. Grass withers
brown and climbs back green
without your touch.
Rattlesnakes run under rocks and leaves.

No single color stays on the leaves
and sometimes I worry what you'd say
seeing the seasons touch
the Jacaranda. The sun rises true
until summer comes, when the young green
grows old and withered.

How often do you plan on withering?
You returned once, only to leave
when the rains came and the hills were green.
And you weren't wrong. I also fight the urge to say
no one remembers what love is; true
or otherwise, it fades without a touch.

"Keep in touch,"
I said, and the voice withered
in my throat. I knew the truth.
No one needs to explain why they leave;
little spines needle the ground. I can say,
appearances deceive. The world will be green.

But hiking through the evergreen
I let the blossoms of the slippery-elm touch
my sleeve instead of your voice. Say
the sky withers, the heart withers
and though they fall, flowers are still here in the leaves.
I think that's the sad truth.

I want it to be the hopeful truth.
Fall returns, but so does Spring. Green
hills call. Flowers bloom in the leaves,
like the garland you wove but wouldn't let me touch:
I would mess your hair. Will these thoughts of you wither,
or have they dropped, and soon will grow something to say?

Say what you like about being true,
withered flowers fade among the evergreen.
Touch them or not, they spread like leaves.