Fruit Presupposes Fruition


Osmotic processes do not shield the irony 

and yesterday

when i returned from the bane of my existence and the meaning of medieval torture


i saw a little baby bird

baby birds do not fly

don’t scud 

trailing the d-d-duh loosely beyond their tongue

they cheep and hop and fall out of nests

but no,

they do not fly.




thoughts imbue a peculiar water

the osmosis incomplete without.

as an IV dripped fluid languidly through my arm

i wondered



irises savoring the umbra behind eyelids

awaiting a redolence away from a hospital


whether the salt that infused my brain

would ever be worthy 


of paper



should you


my dear reader,

overwhelming in patience,

find a lack of conjunction between topic and topicality

poem and poem-ality 

(as i laugh at my own joke)


may i remind that one may not see the fruits newly sowed

reproduce into brilliant showers of heavy-hanging pears

ripe apples

dripping nectarines

for many years longer


i see that bird now

a wing broken,


dead in a puddle


a fearful moment before the needle jammed 

and fluid ran into my arm


and let me remind - yes, once more - 

that fruit does not come to fruition

until one has grown

digested the newness of existence


and understood.





so perhaps there is one moral

one end to this rambling parable and epitaph to a mourned sparrow


just a singular, although you may see more

and i truly welcome it:


inspiration is not a thing.

it is not a someone, a some-book, a some-poem


it is an idea unrealized

and sometimes,


(like a memory that must be jogged-)

an external object brushes by


and not unlike a dustpan collecting dust

the idea arrives nudged

traveling to mouth



and that,

my dear reader,

is inspiration.


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Hey y'all,

This is the author of the poem! I'd really appreciate your feedback (this includes everyone!), so just comment below. I really like a lot of the other poems that are being posted, too. Good luck to everybody!

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