whether report: cloudy with a sprinkling of ink

someone
to write home
too telling letters
sketching the landscape
versions of living
here less than
that, more than
dying—birthing
pieces at a time I have
all these
letters
in my hand—a
voice of
who I am—was—could
be again when
the rain stops
present—past—future longing for
binding, a bed green leaf velvet where
sleep
can finally—
come home

all these letters sent
away—is the cat getting old? bet the
leaves are falling
brown now, piling
themselves against
the door—blocking
the way
and Mother still—
endless
in her—letters, the rain won’t
stop washing the
green off
the trees—grows a jungle (I
am not a jungle but I am
too green
for fall)
the rain won’t
stop—the ink still runs

psgates