By Marc Berman

You never see

a grove of quince.

Who eats them

enough to plant

trees in design?

You get sour jelly,

sometimes pies

that most disdain.

Deer will always

choose an apple.

And raw quince,

it’s fragrance

the distant scent

of keeping secrets

from friends.

_________________

Originally from Boston, Marc Berman began writing on airplanes while traveling from his home in western Massachusetts on business trips.  He is chairman of The New England Public Radio Foundation and a lecturer at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst.

Posted by Mel. View all posts by Mel
Saturday, October 22nd, 2011 12:46 am
Categories: Current: 5.4, Poetry