Here someone to talk to would be nice
said no one under all these peaches,

red and ancient, until each falls the slowest
fall the cardinal’s ever witnessed

as it cuts through dewy air, crafting an ever-
changing weather at my humid orchard’s edge,

at the edge of my new window as I worry
what little I amount to will grow only

in its littleness, and as I worry the red
wind tears the ladder from my sill,

it falls forever through the golden trill
of locusts improvising in the tulip beds.