This outpouring of ash and smoke rings,
Whispered in the solace of shadow.
And I know you're unmoved by the little foxes.
Tails tucked they fawn,
Whelping poetry at your feet.
And fangs bared
They would feed on your exposed heart.
Pick the sweet fruit from low branches
And leave the acrid waste pooling in their wake.
Perhaps I am no better.
Scattering my humble saffron wreaths of words,
Set tiny lights adrift
In a river thick with blood
If I were sustenance you'd starve.
There is nothing I can give you but my simple truth:
I love you.
I am so blessed to call you friend.