Jose of Jose and Peter is missing weeks since we talked as he watered the jungle around his property when I saw Peter, he told me, Cancer, he’s in hospice now, a place down valley and said he found him crying today, miserable from being sick, hating the facility, aching to be home in his absence, the greenery limps, leaves tongue-curled or fallen, revealing a house thirsty for paint Jose will never return, he said, and added that when the forest dies he will plant a d

don’t we all want the joy we’ve gathered to mature like wine apples of friendship our family of melons some lemony characters a tart cherry or two aged happiness has a flavor younger vintages lack more hints of sunsets and warm memories mellowed in older barrels the taste, a dissolving satisfaction sipped extra slow with eyes closed not as good when drunk alone

if I lived by cancer’s warnings, my face would never feel like warm butter my cold arms wouldn’t goose bump with the mix of heat and tingle bare legs would never walk through a field and melt in freedom if I did what they said, I’d rush from shade to shade, never stopping to linger in the precarious sun but that dangerous star is what I worship I may spread a defensive fortification on the flesh above my neck, but the rest of me has a vulnerable need to worship th