Saturday, September 20, 2014

The scent of a peach

The scent of a peach

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

It’s never quite there anyway
and when I reach I’m back again

in my bare cell, empty-handed.
This poem is not much like a peach –

not within a country mile;
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’ve thrown my life away
in pursuit of it; swallowed every tale;

followed the wildest rumors;
written down my confessions

for all to see. I’ve trusted You, Lord,
in complete ignorance for the reality

of its long-trumpeted,
promised, presumed reward.

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

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