Brunch

Earth our waitress comes
to the table in her rumpled apron
stained with a hundred juices.
"What will it be this morning?"
"Let's start with some mist
in one of those green valleys,
and a cup of black loam with
a single tree frog.
"Then fallen apples over easy
with extra worms,
a side of scattered leaves
in a caramelized sunbeam." 
"That comes with Summer's last
abandoned bird's nest salad," she says.
Or soup of the day, fern bog with
skunk cabbage and blue chanterelles." 
"I'll take the soup,
a half carafe of Autumn rain 
and a cruller the shape
of a groundhog's hole."
She remembers your order by heart.
She knows what you love.
Old ones come back to this place.
Then they bring grandchildren.
There's a line to get in.
Sometimes it seems
we have to wait a year,
but its worth it.
_______
Published in 'Clementine Unbound,'
A Journal of Juicy Poetry,' Winter 2016