Though there’s an ill wind out there
and the chimney’s throat gripes
(and its Autumn, way past berry time),
my heart is about to pink –
perhaps to the salmon of late floribundas
or the delicacy of crabapple jelly.
It is in fact, about to flower, my heart
and may – listen – try its blush of a voice,
a wheezy warble inside its cramped cavity,
then unfurl its rosy bunch of notes
which will seed themselves – puff!
clean out between my ribs.