The Endless Loop
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
Each blossom pushes towards perfection, pink
Or white or orange. Petals open wide
Like little gods that in their waking wink
Towards a soft ideal, each shape a bride
Of brightness wed with hope. And then they want
To bear enamelled fruit, enamelled with
An excellence of scarlet joy. They vaunt
Divine intentions, aiming for red myth.
The fruit comes and it swells succinctly to
Its larger truths. The pickers come and take
The blossoms’ scarlet ripeness. Life is true
To death. The field of death awaits, awake.
..The leaves come, then the blooms, They turn to fruit.
….Death constitutes the pith of every root.
~ Phillip Whidden