If unwritten or unsaid,
and left inside the head,
thoughts rot
like apples dropped
by twisted
fruiting trees.
Thoughts battered,
bruised, gone
soft beneath
bowing branches.
But if I happen
upon a thought,
fresh strung from
laden limbs,
I’ll pluck it, bite it,
let it burst
across my tongue-
so crisp.
And the real
ripe ones
I’ll hold, and let
weep sweet tears
down my wrist.
I’ll pace the orchard
of my mind
and pick
and pick
and pick.
pm poetry 