When we talked about the world
we were talking about order:
a trail of grass, a fist of blooms.
My mother points at a slow
and deliberate fall of the full fruit.
“When we are dying,” she says
“when we are long gone and dead,”
And it is so easy to pretend we had a world
of choice. A green, easy tending.
The orchids tenaciously
cling to their dark barks.
We talked straight into evening,
straight into each tangled tendril
angled against dark, into dark.
If we could only hold the edgeless
in place. Night and its reckless weeds.
The light was not ours to give.