Yes, of course, coins, and wheels and the lunatic moon but discs are risky, tires go flat, the moon is pocked and the three ring circus that rolls and roils us to despair are no match for the roly-poly, squishy peach or cherry berry and behold the apricot, the color of dawn and then there are plums to plumb before they turn to prunes and melons like volleyballs, or open the cantaloupe and watch the sun spill out and honey dew like dew that’s been honeyed as big as basketballs but don’t try dribbling, go ahead and open the watermelon and part that red sea, pits and all these ahead of summer’s lease, a ring-around-the rosy time, so take a bite of the plump and fuzzy peach, let it slurp, juice yourself Prufrock, let it drip and then you’ll hear the mermaids sing above the din of marines in our streets and if there is blood let it drip from those Satsuma plums; it’s all we have in this land of sticks and stones, parched of our precepts, going from grape to raisin.
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Delightful! A round of applause for this musing meditation.
ReplyDeleteMy oblique attempt to celebrate the sensuality of what is right in front of us in these times of dread.
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