Jasmine for midnight recovery

Rinse the rice clean,
Water it down in weight
Filth to be lifted.
Rinse the rice clean
Let fallaway the few,
water them down the drain
For a life more subdued.
So the rice is rinsed well,
Still murky, but it’ll do.
After all, it’s for the pot,
to be soaked in a hot stew,
And such as all spirit forged seedlings,
It is swelled through and through,
Fogged glasses as proof.
Fluffed rice now to consume
Over the list of loves to be lost.

PG

Purple Nights

Painted purple skies,
like smooshed berries, are
the night stained in their juice,
fading in color and sweetness.
But the sweetest of them all, that’s blue.
That’s up above me, and you
holding our stars and the birds.
Although it’s a disappearing sight
and a drag of our necks upward
toward vanishing brightness,
that’s where you find the purest fruit.
Shooting through to dark
and falling down with the sun.
Always mixed in color and taste;
often less sweet with only traces.
But those traces carry through
and bleeds into the next dying day.
And it’s no matter the taste or temperature
we are always caught drinking it down,
glimmering specs slip through;
it’s worth the dying:
a taste I’ve acquired from you.

PG