My fist tight,
I learn to squeeze the lemon
with the same might and firmness that life requires of me.
Whether working with my hands,
fingers sticky with pith and juice,
or working with my head,
thoughts bursting forward toward mind-bending possibilities,
I demand fruit,
flavor,
all that it can give me.
So that when I sit down to rest,
I find the spread delicious,
my self satisfied and spent.
3 comments:
loved this. makes me want to dust off my poetry muscles and write something, despite my six or seven year hiatus.
Thanks, Roxanne! Exercise the poetic muscles - you'll be surprised how easy the habit returns to you. :)
I really enjoyed reading this! Very, very good.
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