the enso

"Bringing the Outdoors In" by marlowe

the poem

We notice the single crocus
as it rises like a phoenix from her nest
of rotten leaves, snow, and dried roses
wilted like damask gowns. The wind
sings to us like a siren.

Pine needles, disturbed by the wind, bristle
like porcupine quills, and fallen leaves
tumble over the pavement, clapping
like the hooves of galloping horses.
And these holly berries cradled in my palm?
Drops of blood.

And this blood boiling in your veins?
Love. It isn’t what you make it,
love is. Your center, your core:
it is the hub of that wheel.

We walk to the center of the forest. Trees
point paths to the divine, above and below,
but these evergreens stand
as stiff as the Queen’s Guards.

This evening, the cappuccino froth will sit stiff,
as decadent as whipped cream,
in your spoon while peppermint nips
your tongue like frost. You will argue
that the corkscrew of this cinnamon roll
is a mortal coil.

We will be spoiled, coiled in layers.
Our stained glass ornament will glow like the North Star
while the Christmas tree lights shine like constellations.
And this wrapped present will be a universe
waiting to be discovered.

the enso

"Pie" by Mark Hiebert

the poem

Sometimes, more of the same
confirms you are alive. You can count
on ordering eggplant parmigiana
and a slice of cherry pie
every Sunday for eight years.
Nothing changes.
The marinara and the mozzarella,
the accompanying chianti and cappuccino,
remain intact, replicated
in exact detail. As expected,
the sauce burns the roof of your mouth
while errant strings of cheese stick to your chin.
Yes, the waiters turn over and the prices
teeter with each market fluctuation, but this dish
is your anchor, keeping you
in one place, still. This is how it must be:
your fork cutting the crisp crust,
spoon filled with frothy steamed milk,
a glass of water waiting.