by Al Gabor
A spent blossom will not bud again;
A cord of wood doesn't season into greenness.
So why should ardor deepen
more inchoate with age?
A thirst never sated
but growing more nuanced
with every taste.
Maybe ardor is an accident of memory.
Every sensation and every act--
chewing a stick of cinnamon,
sucking a nipple until it's a hard nut in your mouth, waking to see new snow stark
against the branches of the trees--
from unique to cumulative and back again.
And the heart cannot
sort these sensations from memories.
And in this tension, this indeterminate
state, ardor grows
like the tree my neighbor
a honeylocust that had become hollow.
The roots lived on, sending up shoots.
All summer, among the single blades of grass,
pinnate sprouts, tiny trees in themselves,
unfurled like ferns.