We travel
our arms long, hats turned up
open palms.
We weep for the past
the present, the future.
Bleeding hearts in the garden
sway in time with the souls we’ve seen pulled from our chests
and hung like stars.

Creeping time inches into your dreams
chewing a path filled in with
apple pith and old cells.
It’s been moons since
feet on bridge
or mixing a drink for another.

It’s likely you’ll embrace
the sky
when you are a drifting
and the years lost in the mail climb–bring you to the postman’s yard.
Today you’re
twisting on the wind
where you can help the bees
pollinate the bleeding hearts.

Left. Right.

Right. Left.