For Shirl
My woman has picked all the leaves,
rolled her hands into locks,
gone into the woods where
I have taught her the language
of these wood leaves, and
the red sand plum trees.
It is a digest of my taking
these leaves with hunger.
It is love
she understands.
From my own wooden smell
she has shed her
raisin skin
and come back sweetened
into brilliant music:
her song is our new season.
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