The shells of pistachios, for those too young to remember, were often died a bright red, the indelible evidence of pistachio-lovers left stained upon their fingers.

The vista wide
unbroken by the
sound of my heart
and yours
the drum of spoken
passion pounds upon the
hopes of both
and I would grasp
and not relinquish

Cobalt blue
the frigid sky
pushed winter’s breath
and you would fly
the stolid eddies
to the solid earth
(but not to touch again
God’s family or your own)
fifty

From coldish clay of spinning wheel
the molding center splatters wet
and arcs and flies from forms intent
to rising tensions purposed there
the shape and use of wild speed

It’s been three
years and more
now that I trace
between the I
that wakes
and the us
that sleeps.
Still,
I whisper your name
before I fall,
sometimes (quietly)