FRESH FRUIT
On the farm
I wonder
about the ideology
of a tree
the entire tree:
roots, leaves, branches
cannot
escape asking myself
what haiku currently
courses
through the flowers
Of course
this is (dear reader, I
do recognise) a
category
mistake
of the first order, and will
no doubt, none too late,
be brought
to my attention amidst
much
wild snarling
and thus forgive me
my contextualizing in a poem
how much theory
pervades
everything (truly
it is in
its nature
to be an invasive species)
and Fall and Autumn and
all those mellow feelings
much
written about
some ode or other
that leaf to dead leaf
is
remembered
all the wherefores and whys
as to how
this system getting greener
came
not just
to be but
into conscious being
ruthless and polite both
stuck in a rut this day whilst
supposed
of infinite variety
and my voice
estranged, coming back
to me alien
as if
freshly arrived, in awe of
all capacity to
shift the
word of perspective
see things differently.
poems 2 die for 