Tangerine Leaves

 

 

 

In New York the leaves tempt tangerines and raspberries

from their chlorophyll

with more grace than me

tempting words from my busted hand.

It’s Tuesday and I’ve been staring out a screen

imagining the crisp scent of autumn

wafting from the nearest tree, but

I live in Florida and the leaves are as green as grapes

ripe from Publix

and the humidity still clings to every breath of air

ripening in the heat. The roadkill

is as pungent as ever

along the highway that takes me to neither

the trees nor the shore

and would carry it

if I could pull the bones from its broken body

to resurrect it on my bookshelf

next to the boar skull the ants cleaned

last spring. I’d watched the world wake

early from winter and weave

the coral vines through my fence

to strangle my budding tangerine tree

with the same intensity I denounce

the warm rains of early October

and the inadequacy of the living

to honor the dead.

 

 

 

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Starward's picture

Your imagery is always so

Your imagery is always so artistically intense.  It gives great expression to the emotion the poem conveys.


Starward

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