Bushels of Mush

Bushels of Mush

 
Dozens of oranges fall off the back of a tractor
That pulls the farmers through the orchard.
 
Papayas and apples are picked when they ripen;
Fruits of the Earth, they grow from the ground.
 
Some grow on trees and others from vines;
Wrestle with fate or suffer from crimes.
 
Fields foment forth with sprouts that are plush;
Once picked, if not eaten, leave bushels of mush.
 
Left to rot, what once was sweet and packed;
Must sow its essence, being surreal or abstract.
 


Posted In: Poems

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