Saturday, September 20, 2014

The scent of a peach

The scent of a peach                                                                             

A ripe peach is on a wooden table.
Rather than reach for it, I write poetry

on its virtue, beauty and succulence;
safer, more enduring than the true peach

in this unreliable realm –
I find it’s never there when I reach for it.

I’m back again in my bare cell, empty-handed.
This poetry is not much like a peach –

not within a country mile;
a very rough approximation

yet it’s imbued with the scent of a peach
with which I must content myself.

A ripe peach on a wooden table
and I have thrown my life away

in pursuit of it and its presumed reward;
swallowed every tale; followed the wildest rumors;

written down my confessions for all to see.
I have trusted You, my Lord,

in complete ignorance for the truth
of the long-trumpeted, promised perfect peach.

O child of God, keep your faith confidential
and pray for Meher not to let you down.

No comments:

Post a Comment