Weather Report on Orange

I haven't had this feeling
  since last year's tuba storm
trapped me into a shiny brass basement.
  There was a pot-bellied stove,
grandmother's knitting and orange
  & cinnamon in the air. But it always amazes me
that you never telephone or write
  except for those mass e-mailings
from whatever country you're living in
  now. It seems warm along the canals
of your lingual throat. And like jetties
  from other dialects, you spin wherever you go.
I haven't felt this nourished since
  last season's mandarin & satsuma
traced my navel to my thighs
  like a street only fruit could drive through.
I'd travel the cobblestone of lost centuries
  to find my way back to you. Hang my arms
upon your arms as if to dry them in some heat
  only we create…yes, it is the season of orange
& I'm burning the pulp of possibility,
  the patience of gestation, the crockery of stewing
is brewing in me now. I haven't stirred this soup
  since last year's squash quiche serpentined
my intestines. It was a good meal
  & I'm pleased to remember it with you. Its
the season for plugging in
  & blowing a fuse…the season of candles
that light themselves…the weather for small suns
  to be stored in a basket that I reach for
into my palm that I shall pass into your palm
  & in that moment, in its small darkening curve
we shall ride that line together on an equator.

Published in www.wanderinghermit.com vol. 2