If there were one fruit to describe your current poems, what would it be?
Figs or peaches. Nothing is singular about the ripe. Nothing is singular about poetry. So, what's for dinner? Did someone forget to take out the cheese this morning? And the beloved cat will not answer the phone.
Waiting for the vendor, the fruit, and the wine the daughter noticed a huge cargo liner heading out to sea, the tourists moving on their silk scarves blowing behind them
The near and far voices of travel reminded her of a summer somewhere south a hammock, some stars, the taste of figs, a twig blown past them by a sudden breeze
H/c
ReplyDeleteWaiting for the vendor, the fruit, and the wine
the daughter noticed a huge cargo liner
heading out to sea, the tourists moving on
their silk scarves blowing behind them
The near and far voices of travel
reminded her of a summer somewhere south
a hammock, some stars, the taste of figs,
a twig blown past them by a sudden breeze