Today's poem is by Afaa Michael Weaver


We pull ourselves open,
oranges exposed as flesh,
the pungent smell
of being closed too long
something of a surprise.
Have we been ripe without
knowing and forgotten
to take ourselves as serious,
lie down on harsher things
to be opened by wiser hands
than our own? The oranges
we are spell time in ways
our closed selves cannot
imagine, pain goes hollow
and then full again the way
electric storms fill the sky
suddenly and then bring
only light, the rain a tease.

Copyright © 2014 Afaa Michael Weaver All rights reserved
from City of Eternal Spring
University of Pittsburgh Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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