orchards of rockland maine 1892

fruit of pomona

yielding to reach and touch ,

never to be split between friends and lovers

that homer once wrote of them,

slight tug separation from tree

a tree that would outlive the fingers

among the branches,

each gathered in wicker basket

green and red flesh perfumed

one of softer flesh skin slipped off

pulled open juice spilled nested in pulp

not seed but foetal form,

an emerging conterpart who would grow

in truth,

licking away textured pale pulp revealing all

form grew and writhed,

this was nothing that pliny had written of or the

romans seen yet she knew,

as a woman in her warm spelt bosom,

the coming thunder was starting with overlaid clouds

to raise it’s crescendo,

female foetus of of rockland maine

with mind akin would grow so well,

her fingers had known degas face,

eyes seen the waves of suppression ,

in this basket another voice grew

oil impressionism

captured scene milhaud tones

creation and completion

the veritable truth,

that fruit of pomona spoke so well

no more a planet of empty milk and bread

in the spirit of the gods

many would red lip sacrifice

banner to trumpet call

it was settled now

In Places Other Than

hydrangea aside in

a combed border,

petals pale in neutral soil,

she took a walk alone,

house behind,

sullen in it’s limestone

and thatch,

his note a promise

things had been fragile

since moving across

from the city,

words once murmured

not said anymore,

sunlight brought relief

slanted across her

drawing out that shadow,

he would be here later,

they would share a meal

bread and wine,

he had no other way of being

and it would be accepted,

as much as yielding

upon that mattress and brass

frame,

consuming the whole