"Risa, wait up!"

I did, not walking again until he caught up to me, matching his stride with mine.

"So, how do you think-"

I gasped as I saw it, cutting him off.

"Look at that iris...it's so beautiful!" I exclaimed.

"You like flowers?" Col asked me.

I nodded slowly, still mesmerized by its colors. The iris was a rich blend of purple, blue and red that mixed so naturally and so wonderfully-I could barely comprehend it. Reluctantly, I pulled my eyes away from it.

Strangely, Col was quiet for the rest of the time that we walked together.

The next day was Valentine's Day.

As I walked to school that morning, I felt a small tap on my skin, so light that I almost missed it. Then came another, and another. Of course it was raining today.

All throughout the day there were valentines and romantic gestures all about, regardless.

After an eventful couple of hours, I waited in the cascading rain for Col, so that we could walk together. Minutes passed, but he never arrived.

So I went home.

I had received a valentine, and nothing bad had happened at school, so what was the matter?

It felt like I was waiting for something.

With a sigh, I went downstairs to the kitchen. I smiled faintly as I realized that I had forgotten to take off my rain-soaked clothes.

When I reached to turn the pantry doorknob, I heard a noise - someone knocking on the door. So I went to open it.

There, on the doorstep, was the same iris that I had gazed upon yesterday, dry and even more beautiful than I had remembered.

I smiled, this time completely, and picked up my flower.

As my world burned, I sat down on a soft patch of grass amidst its chaos. The citric scent of my steeping Earl Grey pierced through pungent fumes of ashen smoke that clung to everything it touched. The two odors blended together, invading my senses with a turbulent redolence as I turned to the next page of the book that was resting on my lap.

And are they saints if you burn them,

the piled wood beneath their naked feet?

They died for the faith, my teacher said in

catechism. She once berated forty

children for thirty minutes because

one chewed gum with the Eucharist;

she and her husband divorced, I heard.

Such is the way of the world.

She’s married in the eyes of

God, of course, like that woman I know whose

ex stockpiled firearms in a bunker and

forbid her to leave the house.

Marriage is a covenant, like Abraham’s,

the faithful servant who held the

blade to his bound son’s throat.

But that’s a saint, you understand:

they hear that voice, they obey;

they let everything fucking burn.

The sounds

Leaves make

Echo

The sounds

Of my heart

The zephyr

Passing through

New leaves

Bonded strongly

To their branch

That’s the sound

My heart made

When I met you

The startled silence

Between the drops

Of a sudden

Summer storm

Taking the trees

By surprise

That’s the sound

My heart made

When I fell for you

The crispy crunch

Of dried autumn leaves

Underfoot

Or raked into a pile

Taunting children

That’s the sound

My heart made

When you broke it

The soundless fall

Of the last leaf

Leaving the tree

Lazing its way

Through air

That otherwise

Seems still

That’s the sound

My heart makes

If I think of you now

He was a good man

who feared the hag

but the witch whispered

things to his heart that

nestled there in a

dark recess, things

his wife fanned warm

till he gripped the knife

and overcame his fear

of the witch and death

and God and blood, so

he did the deed, and with

his hands stained red he

donned the crown and

he killed his enemies,

he killed his friend,

and all the while the

dark closed in on

his shadowed heart

so he sought the witch

he once had feared,

and she cast strange

things into her pot,

dog’s tongue, baby finger,

baboon’s blood,

and he asked, “What

is it that you do?”

and she answered,

A deed without a name,

and he stood with the witch

and watched.

The countryside

Teems with life

A bumper crop

Or a poor harvest

The community

Pulls together

The city

Seems to slow

The season change

Sweeps the streets

The community

Hides inside

While whispered wishes

Waft wistfully on the wind

The children

Think of candy

And holidays

Which bring family

And presents

The adults

Think of finances

And holidays

They mourn loss

And work hard

While whispered wishes

Waft wistfully on the wind

The indigenous

Fight for the right

To harvest

The lands

Of their ancestors

The settlers

Stake their claims

And harvest

Their new world

While whispered wishes

Waft wistfully on the wind

You pour the sun, the

rain, the land itself into

a glass, wring the last

red drop, too precious

to fall aside. Hands toiled

for this moment,

migrant hands for

pennies to the pound,

deft and rapid and

sweating with the work so

the vintner can mash and

measure and blend the barrels

so they taste just so, age

just so, at 55 degrees

for a decade or more behind

the cork you pop to release

the planting, the harvest,

the past to your glass:

sip slow.