Tuesday, April 7, 2015

Day 7 National Poetry Month 2015

Rag, orange, flower. from Grant

I'm picking an orange from our tree,
searching for just the right one.
It has to feel a bit soft when my fingers
squeeze it but not mushy.  A sun

in my hand, warm and round.  I twist
it and if it detaches with ease,
I know it will be perfect.  It's like
choosing an idea to tease

into a poem.  Not all thoughts
are ripe enough, some are too hard,
others are stubborn and refuse
to budge.  Forget the ones marred

by bitterness; they aren't worth cutting
into.  I leave them to wither and rot.
I want one that turns into a flower
when I slice it open, like when I got

asked to dance, finally, after sitting alone
and I just felt so thankful I could cry.
That's the kind of topic I need.  I grab
a rag to wipe up the spills and know why

this common fruit with its bright color
and run-down-your-chin juice
contains all the goodness a writer
needs to turn memories loose.

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