We see what was under our noses
only when death’s diamond fingernail
scratches the window pane, asking….
Ok, then. Not today.
But he’s ruined it;
nothing is the same.
We had an orchard when I was a kid,
Macintosh, Granny Smith, pear, peaches.
I hated mowing under the trees.
The fallen fruit was full of hornets,
and the air swarmed with bees.
The air was full of the sweet rottenness
and squadrons of hostile aliens.
We picked the good ones, and
Dad would hand one to me.
I was in my squeamish phase, sure
I’d bite into a worm.
He ate, though, showing me how, eyes closed.
I wish I’d seen this for the gift this was
and taken it more to heart.
I wish he was still around
so I could
If there’s one thing I’ve learned since,
it is how to eat around the wormholes.
Most of the time .