Apple trees in the forest of your thighs. Your knees touch the skies. You blow your trumpet calling the dead out of their graves. With both hands you push back the snow. You say you are building something. The music dances from your lips and you bend and push. Forming something beautiful, yes could it be. You ankles shout at the birds. They have seen you bound with heavy twine, packaged for the road, a long journey. You say that we have devalued this thing called love. The word no longer holds the same significance in your heart that it once did. I find it funny that words can raise and fall according to the whims of fashion. Unlikely to sell like lacy underwear, still there is a market for such things. Capitalism swallows all.