The Whiskey Taster’s Flavor Guide

Balancing Earth On a Pinhead

I never have enough apples.
Apple pie, which I will only eat
alamode. 
Apples, to keep the dentist at bay;
apples, to keep a nagging teacher away.
Apples, cored and filled with peanut butter
and raisins,
finds balance somewhere between a raindrop
and the symmetry of snowflakes,
where balance cannot be found.

Like old age and youth
the man in the mirror always wins.
No matter how long it takes 
to see him, he's always there.
Old ladies lose muscular tone
and daily search to balance sag and arrest,
another dirty smudge where balance
cannot be found.

I take pride in the old woman's knobby fingers,
I 've earned every lump you see.
It brings me joy to look at them...
I have my grandmother's hands..
and that balances everything.
Copyright © | Year Posted 2019

Poem

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Sugarek Avatar
January 9, 2022 at 12:59 PM
I loved this poem. So much rich imagery. I could smell the apple pie baking. Nice work.
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The Whiskey Taster’s Flavor Guide
Book: Diverse Voices: The Poetry of Human Rights and the Pursuit of Peace