A Quiet Conversation

A Quiet Conversation

Pepper;
one fine frenzy,
an open eye
in the palm of your hand.

 

Lazy in the spice field,
picking plums
from a dead tree,
like tasting the grape
of the wine,
almost as impossible.

 

Forgoing each downfall
absurdly thinking,
water covers everything,
just another beginning,
another line
to the factory,
that produces no milk.

 

And the sun beats down
on the turtles back,
yet she still moves
in quiet comfort.

 

“Is this how it’s
supposed to be?”
poses a passing dove,
soaring high above.

 

The turtle hesitates;
“I don’t speak dove.”

 

And takes another step.