Apples in a green bowl
suggest the amusement of living.
It is Autumn now and the failing light of afternoon
shares its bed with the pomegranates and the red Anjou pear.
It is the eyes that arrange festivals,
the voice that rides on a silver staircase.
A sign on your door instructs you to go out tonight
and look for an amber jar buried in the forest.
There are further instructions in the music room.
Go home now. She will be there.