Po ms

Po ms

For those unused
to searching, or tending
We lay the fruit out
in ordered rows,
to be picked and prodded
I love mangoes
the cherries are sweet
the apples so-so

In the hurried consumption
something is lost
of the tree, the vine,
the sun-laden bush
The way the rain refreshes
the orchard at dawn

And who remembers
the balmy breezes of late afternoon?
The plump white clouds
against the azure?
or the colours that
gently gather at dusk?

The cold and the heat,
the startle of hail?
The blanket of stars,
the luminous moon?

The life of each fruition
is diminished
Now neatly packaged,
So shy and undaunting
with mysteries tamed

Such are the perils of going to market.

March, 2004.