Nov 27, 2009

Fruit of happiness

There's this place in the country where
Orange trees line the primitive road

Your rusted Duster jostles on

Still the orange trees beckon

Extending their branches

Wanting you to accept their offering

Taste their fruit, sweet and pure, like a child

So you take one and the juice is sticky on your chin

And you keep the windows down so the wind

Tousles your unruly hair
It ruffles your arm hair, too--tickles it
But you let it, knowing each whirl of wind

Is the heartbeat of heaven

You are close to it

Can almost touch the top of it

You have this urge to sing loudly
, so you do
"Oh my darling Clementine"
And you think the sort of adventure it'd be

To drive like this all day

On you drive,

The fruit of happiness

On your chin, fingertips


1 comment:

Weza said...

I am right there, having my arm hairs tickled by the wind.
Would you look at all the fruit on that tree! Yummo