Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Dread-touch
wasting,
our violet orchid on the shelf
once too turned
its face to the east

Severance,
shivering,
a fortune teller beneath
the cherry tree,
cut free our fate
from the tangled threads
of misfortune

wander-fugue,
compounding
in the silence,
one day something
good will come and
cary you, westward,
away from me