Fruit In Season
Well darlings, morning again.
Time to get up and try some new steps.
We distaste the old way, the emulated way,
those lines we read that were elegant, intelligent
for as long as their taste lasted.
But now I’m working up these eggs,
toasting toast, putting out
my own version of cinnamon biscuits and
a little sorghum on the side.
And out the window, some jays
singing in trees. Who knows if their voices will carry.
who knows what their songs mean.
It’s their time, their songs.
It all seems to contribute:
the early summer heat, the clouds portending something,
the dew berries we planted in hope
that they’ll give fruit in season.
- © Dale Cottingham 2021
Dale Cottingham is of mixed race, part Choctaw, part White. He has published poems and reviews of poetry collections in many journals. He is a Breadloafer, won the 2019 New Millennium Award for Poem of the Year, and is a finalist in the 2021 Great Midwest Poetry Contest. He live in Edmond, Oklahoma.
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