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.
