Hidden Within a Metaphor
I recall picking blackberries.
Blueberries happened earlier and I collected them in a pail.
The blackberries led up a mountain and the juice stained my fingers a beautiful shade.
The blueberries went into a batter and became muffins. I ate my muffin certain that my particular berries filled the center. The blackberries became a poem because they turned into a metaphor for a sliver of time that was not attached to a beginning or end.
Later on the woman who walked up the mountain taught me how to eat an avocado and why you don’t eat banana ends. She was Italian and it may be an Italian custom. One avocado is too filling.
A large pit filled watermelon is best. And wide slices.. The juice dripped down my chin and down my shirt, but no one cared. Spitting seeds requires skill. I never learned to spit my seed more than my height.
Blackberries were best because they remained open as a metaphor for sensual delight.
Blueberries happened earlier and I collected them in a pail.
The blackberries led up a mountain and the juice stained my fingers a beautiful shade.
The blueberries went into a batter and became muffins. I ate my muffin certain that my particular berries filled the center. The blackberries became a poem because they turned into a metaphor for a sliver of time that was not attached to a beginning or end.
Later on the woman who walked up the mountain taught me how to eat an avocado and why you don’t eat banana ends. She was Italian and it may be an Italian custom. One avocado is too filling.
A large pit filled watermelon is best. And wide slices.. The juice dripped down my chin and down my shirt, but no one cared. Spitting seeds requires skill. I never learned to spit my seed more than my height.
Blackberries were best because they remained open as a metaphor for sensual delight.
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