245 and 246

A pillow, e’en a cloud is not as soft

as what consumes my pathos at this time.

I’d sink far deeper--make the earth a loft--

in this, the subject of this lofty rhyme.

Nay, nectar nor ambrosia can compare

with what I would partake if it were here.

No garb nor wanton garment would I wear

that’s richer than my subject, so, so dear.

‘tis sharper than a knife on butter, yes,

and soft still, ‘spite the contradiction clear.

This subject that I wordily caress

is greater than these opposites, you hear.

What is it? Say, the soft salt pretzel! How

I’d do most next to nothing for one now!

~~~

“Would you now look at that,” I say to me,

(we walked beside an orchard out of town)

“there’s apples on this ancient apple tree,

the finest apples I have ever found.”

My grandfather grew apples. They were good,

I picked them every time we visited.

They even fed the lowly neighborhood--

they blessed, quite oft, many a hungry kid.

“I’ll take one now, it has been many years.”

I bit, and something awful met my tongue.

“I don’t recall the taste to bring me tears!”

So my first fruit in many years I flung.

And went to what had long become my norm:

some sugared lump of unnatural form.