Feelings, the Figure De Proue
They are too much supper
And never enough. The stomach
Drops as does a basket of apples too heavy for the
Hands that carry it. Yet, each green orb is
So delightful, that to pluck even one from
Its woven nest seems wasteful.
I do not intend to feed the birds.
Intensity of Romantic Hope never comes
To dinner without her companion, Fear of Rejection.
Their arms link in reluctant solidarity, and
Are perhaps the archetype for co-dependency.
Together they feed Anxiety, which is
Cyanide for hope. But Trust is
In the orchard climbing
Apple trees and filling baskets,
Her pockets, and
Calls down to her companions to
Bring the wheelbarrow too.
Share This Poem