The Dream

Painting by Kayuza Akimoto

The Dream


For two years now, when he’s slept in his cell
at the state pen, he’s had the same, recurring dream.
The apricots have ripened on his front yard trees,
bowing the branches so the lower ones
touch the ground.
Frozen in his chair inside the window
like a quadriplegic, all he can do is watch
as the crows descend like a black, cawing cloud
and devour the ripened fruit,
their beaks slashing like black knives.
His trees bereft of fruit
and even leaves, he wakes,
remembering how for miles around
the locals came to gaze upon the glory of his trees,
the largest and most productive in the county,
bestowing his dilapidated shanty with dignity,
hiding it from the street with a dense veil
of fruit and leaves. He remembers how
he only meant to graze the big teenager who awoke him
late one night, stealing his apricots,
but, firing an errant shot,
dropped him dead as a cold,
pulpless apricot stone.



Larry D. Thomas

Posted over on Larry D. Thomas Blog Site