To sprout an avocado seed in the wrong climate is to begin a battle.


Avocado

Seven leaves soar under
the lamp, spread as gull wings,
frozen in flight,
under the constant light
of the surrogate sun illuminating
the rigid veins as if X rayed,
casting a green glow
among the books and white walls.
The trunk scarred by
dry stumps of fallen stems
rises to its tortured height
from the pile of fallen leaves
scattered as ashes of a former
verdant glory.

The avocado lives,
sprouting tiny fronds.
Someday there will be green blossoms
and the oblong fruit will appear
with its green linoleum skin
and soft green meat,
someday the bitter seed
will have brought a bounty
after an eternity of a decade
in the pot.




Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 131 times
Written on 2020-01-26 at 03:31

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Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Such solid, grounded writing. It's great to hear from you again.
2020-01-26


Thomas D The PoetBay support member heart!
Superlative, fresh language.
2020-01-26


liz munro The PoetBay support member heart!
I like the descriptive words in this
2020-01-26