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Little fruit

November 3, 2005

Little fruit
of poisoned vine
you look for
a water source
with the roots
of your branches.

You will find only
dry riverbed there.
Once there was a
rushing stream which
carried water
past like miles
by a speeding car.

You ignored the
water then, like
we ignore the cries
of drowning sailors,
marooned at sea
by pirate ships.

You were used
to plenty but as
you’ve ripened
you see that
love is not
ubiquitous

or free or
nourishing.
You stick your roots
in whatever dirty soil
will hold them,
and as the soul

gets dingy by the
stink of pollution
you close off this
chapter, wall it off,
leave it in the
fruit jar, ignored.

until it bursts,
festering, and
causing heart-burn
or -break. Fruit
of my loom,
sleep the troubled

dreams of childhood
when your biggest
fears are big fears
and let me know
tomorrow if the
fruit remains
on the vine,

poisened and unripe.
Or, travel elsewhere
so you seek more sun.
Pull up your roots, and
travel to another
orchard where the
Keeper watches over you.

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