I bought a box of apricots:
The first was sweeter than
Honey from any hive.
The second was so bitter
It made my tastebuds
Run and hide.
As I contemplated the third,
I had not learnt my lesson -
This one was over ripe and rotten:
It had gone to apricot heaven.
How much like life are my apricots,
Full of summer's scorn!
The first part hung upon the tongue
Like dew upon the morn!
The second was a trial, barely edible
But swallowed none the less...
This third part has gone moldy
And is more trial than it is test.
I sit weaving words with my book
Upon my lap.
I have a sharpened pencil that on the
Side of my nose I tap.
I draw upon those apricots
Honied and ripe and golden
And I swing upon the hairshirt
Of the parts to which my heart's
Sadness is beholden.
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