by R J Dent
The orange tree in the grove is your fear –
it bears the bright round emblems of the sun;
the leaves are your voice, curled up in your throat
and you spit syllables of chewed green pulp
to fertilize the soil it’s growing in.
And so you come to need to kill the tree;
to kill the branches, you must kill the roots,
but the branches are trailed over the roof
of the house named Hope you built just yesterday.
Children take your fruit, laugh and run away.
Copyright © R J Dent (2009)