History Of The World Poem by Joe Bisicchia

And so, the hanging fruit has always had a seed.
What did we do with it? What shall we?

Never quite silent, the tree, even in peace,
rustles as the breeze bends us.

We know all the green and allow it to envelop our sky,
and hypnotize.

In the dreams, in the veins of all the leaves,
sits the puzzle piece. Nothing new. Down to the roots.

Love is a word, an ongoing verb.
There is need, always was and always will be.

The hanging fruit has a seed.
Near the heart.

What can now start?



Published by Anatolios Magazine,2019