Bio Note: I didn't get serious about writing poems until my 40s. Now I'm obsessed--as my patient husband (and our not-so-patient beagles) will tell you. I've come to believe that poetry is the soul-language humanity secretly craves. Now more than ever.
Balanced on the counter above the sink: a little planet, spattered yellow and army green—with drizzles of orange down the seams of its time zones. It says security. “I will keep for a month or more—a trustworthy sidekick. Use me as doorstop, paperweight, centerpiece, softball. I come from the field and am humble.” Yet something about the sleek, umbilical clip of its stem is suggestive. Its shape, imperial as a crown (or the peaked dome of a minaret) is dense with meaning. How did mere soil birth such a perfectly odorless container? You imagine it sliced in half, slow-roasted until the tender threads can be scooped cleanly out of their slippery paper, into a fuming bowl. Only then, you think, will it give up its scent. For the time being, it serves as a reminder of how one gets by—the future’s wet seed nesting in the hard fruit of forbearance.
©2020 David Southward
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