Preserved meat

One hundred and eight lucky seeds hang next to the door and I don't think
the leaves look down or skyward for you 
they lead together under the current of the sea 
Anything could be happening. Birth, death, broccoli, simple torture or
the emerald serpants of spring  
of summer, of winter, but not the fall. Never of the fall when the leaves
part their lips, the flood returns 
victims to times when the sea was up to our necks & even the frogs couldn't
free themselves from the cold cellar 
to retrieve the jars of preserved meats to take along on the journey.