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A poem in which I am growing.
A poem in which I am a tree,
And I am both appreciated and undervalued.
A poem in which I fear I did not dig into the past,
Don't be so glum,plum.
Don't feel beaten.
You were made to be eaten.
But don't you knowthat deep within,beneath your juicy fleshand flimsy skin,
Take an apple. Chop it into quarters.Count out three. These represent the lakesthat nestle inside countries, all the snaking rivers joined with seas – the blue that’s water.
She had a box full of taffeta, ermine,
shoes made of petals, those of a rose.
Satin, worn thin beneath copper trees,
a deep scarlet hood on a wolfish coat.
I found an autumn necklace in the hedge,
silken threads, strung with tiny beads.
Yet when I touched a strand it fell,
leaving only scattered tears.
A plant called loveA plant called hate
I grew them both in my garden.The plant called love was hard work.
Furrows unfurl,Carved by the plough – Curl, fold, fall back:The skin peels away.
Aren’t you cold and won’t you freeze,With branches bare, you winter trees?You’ve thrown away your summer shift,Your autumn gold has come adrift.