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.