Slanting light casts onto a stucco wall
the shadows of upwardly zigzagging plum branches.
I can see the thinning of branches to the very twig.
I have to sift what you say， what she thinks，
what he believes is genetic strength， what
they agree is inevitable. I have to sift this
quirky and lashing stillness of form to see myself，
even as I see laid out on a table for Death
an assortment of pomegranates and gourds.
And what if Death eats a few pomegranate seeds？
Does it insure a few years of pungent spring？
I see one gourd， yellow from midsection to top
and zucchini-green lower down， but
already the big orange gourd is gnawed black.
I have no idea why the one survives the killing nights.
I have to sift what you said， what I felt，
what you hoped， what I knew. I have to sift
death as the stark light sifts the branches of the plum.