Kelli Allen

Sometimes, as we move close to autumn

Generosity weighs the pear boughs
down. Blooms this late in any season
are a warning. We have abandoned gathering
blossoms, but we carry their scent on our skin
from pressing our backs, shoulders, into their
ground nestings moments before these words,
left now, for you. We are involved in keeping

this tangling quiet, the way an inheritance
is expected by trees, through wind, swept
as sugar from hearth to threshold. I believe
in baptism the way the river carries convicts
and lovers both closer to something
like the sea. There is no end

to my hands covering your eyes. We
are fine lines carving the old rocks
and no tree here, no matter its sweetness,
its ripe remembering, can convince us
that the secret things are brighter
when we give them proper names.