Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

Sonnet #116

When the first fruits come on our perennial trees

The ones we planted years ago, watered, fed,
The ones we researched, cultivated, as well-bred,
When the first fruits come, there's only three
We see them green upon the branches, small
One will be thinned, so that one is gone
It will make the other two larger when done
Two will be eaten by the caterpillars and fall
A rotten mess upon the root, too late we saw
Too late to save. The third and final we absolve
of all sins, pour hope upon the roots and draw
the birds away with seed across the yard, revolve
around her daily, observe the color, feel the weight
We'll pick her unripe, overeager, and curse this fate

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