08-01-2014, 05:28 AM
The Ghost Fruit
The ghost fruit keeps its secrets. Ebon pits,
big as your fist, litter the ground, picked
clean by starburst wrens, skittering
around. Some seeds three years old. Lit
from behind, their blue germs still shimmer:
lively, tiny, doomed. Soon, none will exist.
one shrinking copse, by a waterfall, persists.
Once, ten-thousand spawning behemoths trenched
the river soil. Black-skinned eggs and black-
shelled pits alike they tucked into the brack,
then broody laid until the glowing sprouts
lead the hatchlings up and out, which browsed
the stems until they glowed, and soldiered off
the waterfall into the sea, camouflaged as stars.
Now, one last sad-eyed giant, trumpeting,
forlorn, finally tired, finally
too old, to keep the mound warm enough . . .
She tries. She tries so hard before she dies.
The original thread can be found here
The ghost fruit keeps its secrets. Ebon pits,
big as your fist, litter the ground, picked
clean by starburst wrens, skittering
around. Some seeds three years old. Lit
from behind, their blue germs still shimmer:
lively, tiny, doomed. Soon, none will exist.
one shrinking copse, by a waterfall, persists.
Once, ten-thousand spawning behemoths trenched
the river soil. Black-skinned eggs and black-
shelled pits alike they tucked into the brack,
then broody laid until the glowing sprouts
lead the hatchlings up and out, which browsed
the stems until they glowed, and soldiered off
the waterfall into the sea, camouflaged as stars.
Now, one last sad-eyed giant, trumpeting,
forlorn, finally tired, finally
too old, to keep the mound warm enough . . .
She tries. She tries so hard before she dies.
The original thread can be found here
It could be worse
