Without Surprise

May 26 2020

In absence, passing hours, longing days,
in years I thought I might not live to see,
I verdured like a pickle mantis prays
and wondered what or when you meant to me.
A nightshade, giving leave in early spring
bears not a red or purple fleshy fruit,
but as my tongue will rot, and eggs will sing,
forbearance ripe by August may be moot,
but, passing seasons, toil at the roots,
what gives man right to dream of harvest picked
not “grown,” not sprouting leaves or forking shoots,
as if the god from which he takes is tricked?
I only knew your heart, your mind, your eyes
would see right through me, old, without surprise.

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