Cut Glass (Poetry)

A crystal circle
proud on polished wood
there sits fruit bowl
gleaming empty
not one trace of fruit —
no peel nor pip
no broken stalk
still moist with juice

Its shiny hollow aches
with bouncing light
the cut glass spirit gone
to search the fecund orchards
of the world
for ripe red apples

or hunt in markets
for the velvet peach
purple grape or plum
to tissue-wrap and coax
them gently home
to fill the bowl once more
give it colour
warm as setting sun

sweet fleshy globes
that offer up
scent and texture
tell a season’s tale
in every bite a birth
a little death