I sit down to write a sexy sense-poem about eating fruit.
To be fully present, to record my experience.
Molly wants to know if she can write a poem about Kool-Aid.
(She's home from school, having a chronic belly ache.)
She picks out letters on the keyboard: "Red as can be."
Yeah, that's Kool-Aid. My apple is both red and green, but
not nearly as red or green as could be.
Nor even as apple as could be. I'm a cranky wine editor
making flavor notes with a tangible air of disappointment:
"I feel I have to reach for the taste beneath the watery surface."
Still trying to cobble some sensory information,
I generously scribble: "An undertone of melon."
Then I realize the apple has a message for me.
"This apple is testing my patience. This apple
is a lesson in acceptance."
Sometimes life is an X-ray of a tiny belly full of stone-like poop pebbles, and I'm relieved because it means Molly isn't missing school for phantom tummy aches. Sometimes life is hours in waiting rooms and too many co-pays. Sometimes life is a watery apple that could moonlight as iceberg lettuce. Sometimes life is a boring, un-writable story.
Even then, though, life is poetry.