This is a letter to the worm-threaded earth.

This is a letter to November, its gray bowl of sky riven by black-branched trees.

A letter to split-tomato skins, overripe apples, & a flock of fruit flies lifting

      from the blueing clementines’ wood crate.

To the broken confetti of late fall leaves.

This is a letter to rosemary.

This is a letter to the floor’s sink & creak, the bedroom door’s torn hinge

      moaning its good-night.

This is to the unshaven cheek.

To cedar, mothballs, camphor, & last winter’s unwashed wool.

This is a letter to the rediscovered,

to mulch, pine needles, the moon, frost, flats of pansies, the backyard,

      hunger, night, the unseen.

This is a letter to soil, thrumming as it waits to be turned.

This is a letter to compost, eggshell’s bone-ash chips, fruit rinds curved like

      fingernails, & stale chunks of bread.

A letter to the intimate dark—mouth-warm & damp as a bed.

This is a letter to the planet’s scavenging lips.