Sugar Run

A poem of autumn, longing, and the body / Underleaf herbal support for November’s demands

linger-sweet sap. Pines
like wet hair mothers braided,
sugar squeezes out, condensed.
violets blossom under bark,
plum moons drip, black sap sighs

night folds its legs around me-
spindle-wild, dark nectar dripping
from pinecones to thighs
to the back of the throat,
a sticky constellation.

moss cups the fallen plum.
I press my hands, count
the red tremble of maple,
each vein a comet,
each bite a body, trembling, alive.

come here. put your hands
where the bark splits, where I’m standing.
taste this on my skin-
the last fever,
the shudder before the drop.

press your mouth here-
where the sugar runs,
where my pulse tastes like fruit.
I want autumn between us,
sticky, slow, impossible to clean

November leans its shoulder
against the dark asking for warmth in another tongue.
The weeks ahead can hold both reunion and friction-
sweetness braided with fatigue.
We gather near the hearth and may carry our histories to the table.

Below is herbal support for what may surface. (for paid subscribers.)