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.