Fruition
His home is within
the swollen dome of a tree
where no response is needed,
where history burrows, as if
forsaken, in solitary
contemplation. He gathers
twigs, stirs the pot
on a small outdoor fire.
Two woman appear,
drawn like nectar, not caring
that his flesh is sprinkled with
warts and his middle round
as a watermelon. One half his age,
with curly red hair and barefoot.
The other’s face, scarred
in a fire, veiled. Concerned
about his well-being she asks,
Why do you stay in this hollow
tree with mice for company?
He answers with a bowl for each:
potato, burdock and other roots,
simmered to sugary pulp,
dollops of butter, hearty
and rich as his company.
Afterward, they lounge in sun-
baked arms of the tree where
nothing is accomplished.
They never want to leave.
Copyright © 2015 by Carrie Albert