There's no substitute for the ripe, for the seasonal. OK, OK I remember devouring canned peaches as a kid. Then again, I ate Maraschino cherries. Now not even vanilla ice cream would tempt me to grab either. Then again, I don't each much ice cream these days.
Does writing poems adhere to the seasonal? Does it stretch into editing? Does it extend to the reading of? Can you write, edit or read a poem out of season with vigor?. Conviction? Will the iterative voice of the ripe flow through?
The weight of place. Of season. Of time.
EATING CANNED PEACHES IN OCTOBER
she thought it best
the conundrum of actual
for another time
and settled into
a cup of oolong