BIRTH OF AN APPLE
When an apple gives birth what is the result? Seed or sauce? Crunch or crisp? The act of creation is so much an act of sacrifice, how can it be limited to only one kind of delivery? The children of effort produce fruit of their own; who am I to call them other than my kin? How many times have I thrown over bluster for blizzard? But snow is snow. I can accept every squall if I keep clear and willing. I may finish my days in a winter orchard if I spend my life picking not choosing.
Keep two lists: what you want and what you have.
Behind Closed Doors
The children of happy fathers make no sense to me.
I have known no such peace.
What is it to live in a world where there is a man
who likes you, someone who approves?
I feel like my chin would have always been out there to see,
no ducking, no need to hide,
had there been a good man to whom I could turn.
The dark circles under the eyes of my soul make me old,
old and different from those kids, mere children,
safe in a home with a happy man whose joy it is to be their Dad.