The whistle of a bird
The slant of sunlight through the trees
The still-soft hairs on his old man’s arm
The almost burnt richness of fried plantains
The spicey smell of garam masala

But also
The death of my brother-in-law
Sweeping up after a shedding dog
Surveying the unexpected disorganization of my kitchen
The bone aching insistent tiredness at the end of a day
Of doing nothing

The long years behind
The ever shorter road ahead
Sweltering in passion’s bright light 
Through criss-crossed branches of dim trees
As the road twists out of sight
Bringing me ever closer
To a grave vineyard of plump poetry
Ripening under the greening branches of love