PATIENT

Three years ago the music stopped,

an empty ring appeared on the glass,

a small patch of sky

grew from the window.

Speak

yet make no sound.

Beyond the window, scattered words,

as soon as I see them, become apples,

their flesh soaked through by sound.

Smoke wants always to seek its own source.

Three years ago, I planted

a tree in a hole.

Before it stands often

someone with a beautiful face.

Others come to mock me.

Fallen leaves blanket the hole.