Gifts

Dad thanks me for the
light bulb. Apricots, I give
him next. "Aaah!" he says,
a softness to his voice now
as the golden balls roll out.

He asks for green grapes
next time, seedless, though I've asked,
"Pears?" The grapes will sit
and some will rot, growing white
caps, like elders sitting quietly.

Other juicy ones
will leap into the velvet
red cavern of this mouth
singing as they slide down to
the lake. "Aaah!" he will murmur.

Apples wait for days
too big to be eaten, but
saved anyway. Milk
and juice sit out covered like
treasures hoarded, liquid jewels.

MAY 22, 2010