Wednesday, June 27, 2012

I Ponder

Sappho's apple, the 
left hanging in the tree. 
Were the pickers careless?
Or accidental artists 
who left a dangling 
for winter's cold forgetting 
when proof is needed, wanted, 
that summer came and 
blossomed here 
as all the world
 can see. 

Being last, the one 
is a chilly situation. You 
shrivel and dry up by 
way of lonely nights
where no one
 hears you
 wail or moan.

Put me in your basket. 
Enjoy me crisp and juicy. 
Pick me. Eat me.

Sappho, please
don't leave me there


Maureen said...

I have a fine press book of Sappho's poetry. So glad you discovered her.

I find your poem very moving, Kathleen. "Being the last one/and unpicked" is like a deep inner howl.

Kathleen Overby said...

Maureen, I only just heard of Sappho last week at the Glenworkshop. If you ever find an aesthetically pleasing copy, buy it and I'll pay you back.