It is only September.
I don’t know how many seasons
I will be allowed to love you yet.
What I do know is that you have flown
one thousand Miles to stand in my kitchen,
dropping chocolate chips into pumpkin pancakes
like arranging freckles for the face of a perfect child.
Feeding me the extra semisweet moles.
I don’t yet know for how many years
you might flip me pancakes for.
If you will still love me when that blonde tree
sheds her Hollywood wig. If we will make it
to the season of the blueberries, but I don’t care.
The tree is a pin-up girl posing outside my window
and you’re only looking at me. Every latte in this city
smells like the only fruit in the world
we carve faces from. Tell me
might that be something?