We see what was always under our noses
only when death’s fingernail
scratches the window pane, asking….
Not today? Ok, then. Not today.
But nothing is the same.
We had an orchard when I was a kid,
Macintosh, Granny Smith, pear, peaches.
I remember hating to mow under them,
how the fallen fruit was full of hornets,
how the sweet rottenness filled the air
when the blade chewed them to pulp.
We’d picked the good ones, and
Dad would pluck one and hand it to me,
but I was squeamish about the worms.
He ate, showing me how, eyes closed.
I wish I’d seen the gift and taken it.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned since,
it is how to eat around the wormholes.