Issue 6:
Love
Tom Moore
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Harvest
The sweetness of rotting apples infuses the winter grays--
I'd hung them in a sack last fall, when freezing air, then
warmth, unstuck the skins and browned the once-white meat.
Though I pass this way each day, I know I hadn't planned
such pleasure--the scent of an aging marriage, of two
selves decaying into one, so slowly, that I can't know
when the core of one has ended, the other's stem begun.
In the morning or the night, the deep scent of sugars, waking,
refining simple carbons into spice, having no warrant
but delight, deserves a better death than rot--
Though not upon this lettered earth, with its infininte love
of instruction, where the other's pay is counted
as a loss, and need, an accounting of decay.
~Tom Moore
A teacher (history of ideas), husband and dad from the state of Washington, Tom writes, "'Harvest' is perhaps more formal than my usual poem, but I try to let the subject matter suggest the form." Email.
© 2001 by Tom Moore. All Rights Reserved.
© 2000-2002 by Cayuse Press. All Rights Reserved.
This page updated April 24, 2002.