On Hearing David Eat an Apple Via Telephone

Anything becomes a poem. My old friend

Chews lustily speaking of Chekov

And I think he’s eating

Lawrence’s “mystic” fruit:

an apple

becomes mystic when I taste in it

the summer and the snows, the wild welter of earth

and the insistence of the sun…

Now after rain, early spring, hop-scotching birds,

avian imperfect, mystic the wild ordinary.

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University View all posts by skuusisto