A long haul flight with Yuma

I tell him how a seed turns into fruit

how his apricot was once a tiny dot, a crayon splotch
a detail from our window
how one morning in Japan there was nothing
nothing ripening in his waiting mother.
I say, once there was nothing in this plane-
there were no planes and the sky was dark.
Under that sky, small bones grew like fields
unfurled themselves and caught each other
They were night and day and each grew longer
more accustomed to the shift in eyes and
tepid soil, harder on the novice tongue.
I tell how things are treasured- that tender skin
that champagne shade, the way he came, tied up
and shaded from season, susceptible to love,
warm with searching eyes for his seeds
yearning to cross oceans, plant fruitful shoots

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© Elisheva Connelly. All rights reserved.

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