​Stirring white crystal sand 
of bone meal
into rich brown mud,
she places each tulip bulb,
coated in the dark mixture,
a nest of kiss-shaped eggs,
close, but not touching.
In October’s now, she sees April,
sealing it in, pats down the earth,
like a sea-turtle burying her offspring.
Maybe the bones’ phosphorous will glow
a little in that darkness—guiding the shoots upward,
as the luminescent sea signals to
those baby turtles: This is your chance. Swim.

​On the last possible day,
at the foot of a leafless tree,
try to pop a perfect apple down,
hurl a rotten one to loosen
that wormless one, stare up, dizzy
limbs shake against a still sky--
Breathe. Picture it. Follow through--
Thud of success. Bite sun-warmed,
dusty skin into hard white sweetness.
Quiet, then frogs buzz. The ears
of a doe and two fawns flicker
at the tips of golden brush,
listening for dusk.

Autumn trees,
chlorophyll-unmasked--
True colors only visible
in the brief tilt of October light

The house it haunts
is in your hand,
bathing your face in its
small, square glow--
You didn’t know:
your sentence was a seance,
phantom tapping from the other side--
flashing ellipses in a bubble:
dot dot dot
dot dot
dot--

I've been following my extremely talented artist sister (@KirstiRingger on Instagram)—her drawing contributions to #Inktober this month are off the charts. I'm late to the game, but decided that I'd use the daily prompts to write something instead of draw, for the last 10 days of the month. My "ink" pictures will be of my very hasty, daily drafts! Today's prompt: #TREASURE. There is a tree that I've been in love with for years, so I decided to write about her specifically. 

As if it weren’t enough
that in late summer she blooms
white fragrant stars, mocking jasmine,
extending trembling threads of stamens,
blushing shy pink underneath--
 
As if it weren’t enough
that, when bruised,
her hand-sized, heart-shaped, hair-soft
leaves emit the smell of peanut butter
(what insouciance in the face of injury)--

As if it weren’t enough
that when her flowers drop, each waxy
calyx hardens into a fuchsia tiara,
a pointed pink collar--
 
As if that weren’t enough,
inside each crown,
She’s Placed The Treasure:
a perfect, indigo pearl,
an autumn jewel replacing every summer flower,
A transaction
in the inky currency
of winter’s tongue.