while the green fig waits
for its ripeness to arrive
I sit perched on my moments
tasting an over-ripeness
no longer palatable to my tongue
my yesterdays multiply behind me
as my tomorrows diminish underfoot
and each new moment
sits heavier on my bones
wears on my battered resolve
hobbling my faltering steps
toward oblivion
I want no more surprises
they have lost their luster
they have become
killer clowns
let me grasp
what shaky balance I can
as the last seeds disappear
into the cloying sweetness
© Vilma Olsvary Ginzberg, 06-21-2020
Recent, unpublished poetry.
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