My kitchen

My kitchen

is aglow with soft spring,
emerald fabrication
greens the threshold

Tufts inch across the reclaimed table,
the moss reclaiming it with velvet inner arms
& mushrooms, mycelium creaking to life,
the underbellies of silver leaves,
the leaves clicking back and forth
on their stem hinges

How many months has it been?
& anyway, what is a month?
None of our attempts at order
stay long

Soon, I see deer in the doorway
out of my eye's ghost corner,
their shadows orienting
the plain white walls, their purple bodies
hued by sunset, hooves clobbering the hardwood

They bend to the river-coursed pans,
the spoons accumulating
like iridescent shells in the sink
The deer bow to whatever this mystery is
we find ourselves in

Their noses, alive,
their eyes, alive with the water
overtaking the sink
I remember what it is
to feel cold      wind ripping the sky
& night coming on in the form of stars,
stars like polished silver              swept across the ceiling