• Vilma Ginzberg

Past Ripening


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Recent, unpublished poetry.


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