Yesterday I asked my fruit to ripen.
I have a tendency of asking too much
from those unable to give me anything—
a tendency of asking the immature
to commit to maturity, to give up things
they aren't ready to give up.
Or perhaps I am just a bad judge
of fruit. I pick the bad apple,
the unripe banana. I choose
that fruit and then get upset
when it isn't sweet enough. I often
forget that it was not created
just to satisfy my tastes.
And so, here I sit—
a hungry girl surrounded by
things she cannot yet have.
I sit on a kitchen floor, journal in hand,
looking at fruit that is not yet ready
to be enjoyed.
And I write a poem about it.
YOU ARE READING
a woman emerges
PoetryThe life and times of a boring, suburban no one with a penchant for writing (or something like that). -- (Lowercase sometimes intended, sometimes not)
