To an Apple

You seem to know there is
no frost until there is, 
little Buddha, master 
of the art of being 
in the moment though 
you ripen in the sun, 
rendered brilliantly
by God or Paul Cezanne.

Quilt

For my daughter
 
 
A few minutes of cartoons
as we spoon soup, 
January dusk,
perhaps are quilted like
 
patchwork into something 
I will reach for in
my last winter, 
when I am never warm.
 
In that bare flat,
reruns on TV,
hands that cradled you
will finger every seam.