Fruit Fall
A Poem by
Rowan Blair Colver
Sometimes, fruit falls by the wayside.
Rather than finding its way into an ornate bowl,
Decorated with little hand painted flowers,
Or perhaps crafted from locally grown wood-
It lays motionless in full colour upon the browning grey
Of concrete. No tear, sympathetic or artistic
Need be lost! For not only symbolic to the occasional eye,
Or even tragic to the perceptive insinuation of failure,
But to which guideline, rule-set or criteria?
Does it matter to the majority of nature if its bounty
Is appreciated and framed as art itself?
Or do the bluetits or the earthworms wonder
At the delicate brush strokes of the apple tree artisan who,
Gently crafted flecks of red within the main body of green?
As the guaranteed destiny for the flesh of the fruit is,
To become one with the earth which mothers the roots of its
Own maternal being, the tree, the reacher to heaven in branches and leaf.
Waste no water for the stray cooking apples,
Which wander past their orchard's hands.
As once a little bird speaks of a free fruity feast,
'T is as if the Lord of the Flies descends,
And soon from within writhes the beast.
Rowan Blair Colver
Get the poetry anthology "Integrity of Spirit"
A Poem by
Rowan Blair Colver
Sometimes, fruit falls by the wayside.
Rather than finding its way into an ornate bowl,
Decorated with little hand painted flowers,
Or perhaps crafted from locally grown wood-
It lays motionless in full colour upon the browning grey
Of concrete. No tear, sympathetic or artistic
Need be lost! For not only symbolic to the occasional eye,
Or even tragic to the perceptive insinuation of failure,
But to which guideline, rule-set or criteria?
Does it matter to the majority of nature if its bounty
Is appreciated and framed as art itself?
Or do the bluetits or the earthworms wonder
At the delicate brush strokes of the apple tree artisan who,
Gently crafted flecks of red within the main body of green?
As the guaranteed destiny for the flesh of the fruit is,
To become one with the earth which mothers the roots of its
Own maternal being, the tree, the reacher to heaven in branches and leaf.
Waste no water for the stray cooking apples,
Which wander past their orchard's hands.
As once a little bird speaks of a free fruity feast,
'T is as if the Lord of the Flies descends,
And soon from within writhes the beast.
Rowan Blair Colver
Get the poetry anthology "Integrity of Spirit"
