the enso

"Leaves Turning" by marlowe

the poem

While our hair grays, your leaves blush,
turning redder by the day, hanging onto branches
that no longer support you. With each strident gust
Old Man Winter blows through your boughs,
another dozen leaves fall to their deaths,
curling with rigor mortis before the browning begins,
catching between yellowed blades of grass that dream
of a spring reprise. For you, there is no such thing.
You were destined to give up all of your children,
and prepared for separation at the first frost.
Bare, you will stand witness to the cruelty
these seasons can wrought, until the snow
caresses your limbs like a long-lost lover.

the enso

"Bringing the Outdoors In" by marlowe

the poem

We notice the single crocus
as it rises like a phoenix from her nest
of rotten leaves, snow, and dried roses
wilted like damask gowns. The wind
sings to us like a siren.

Pine needles, disturbed by the wind, bristle
like porcupine quills, and fallen leaves
tumble over the pavement, clapping
like the hooves of galloping horses.
And these holly berries cradled in my palm?
Drops of blood.

And this blood boiling in your veins?
Love. It isn’t what you make it,
love is. Your center, your core:
it is the hub of that wheel.

We walk to the center of the forest. Trees
point paths to the divine, above and below,
but these evergreens stand
as stiff as the Queen’s Guards.

This evening, the cappuccino froth will sit stiff,
as decadent as whipped cream,
in your spoon while peppermint nips
your tongue like frost. You will argue
that the corkscrew of this cinnamon roll
is a mortal coil.

We will be spoiled, coiled in layers.
Our stained glass ornament will glow like the North Star
while the Christmas tree lights shine like constellations.
And this wrapped present will be a universe
waiting to be discovered.