(for Annabel Weinstein and Harry Castelli)
I live in a forest of pale maple.
A grove of deep cherry
dapples the island newly afloat,
shoals of black granite
shoot gold flecks
back to the sun.
Salmon leap up,
perfectly seasoned
with dill and lemon.
From my stockpot flow
endless streams of bouillabaise
lobster-laden, saffron-tinged.
Overhead fly flocks of croissants,
feathered bronze and butter.
A fissure bursts open,
geysers of frothed milk,
espresso lava.
Come to my woodland paradise,
rest beneath its drifting cloud,
Watch how I can make the sun set,
call the stars to come out.
Crisp wafers of maple leaves
crunch underfoot.
In the spring, my kitchen
will bloom with cherry,
dipped in pink honey,
reaching out of windows
to the waiting bees below.
