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Richard Fein is a Brooklyn resident whose poetry has appeared in many publications on and off the Web.


Dark Planet is designed and edited by Lucy A. Snyder. If you spot any errors, or if you have any comments, please contact her at lusnyde@cyberus.ca.

All materials copyright 1996-2000 by their respective creators. No stories, articles, poems or images from this webzine may be posted or published without the written consent of their creator(s).

Eve of Day

by Richard Fein

Can one be given what one already has?

If the tree grew in the center then nothing could have been taller:
no cedars, oaks, maples, or tulip trees,
neither palms, figs nor cecropias,
and no lianas dangling like wild hair.

Fruit trees must always hog the sun, for they never thrive in shadows.

Bright blossoms beckoned butterflies, hummingbirds, and bees.
Nectar was sipped; petals fell.
Pistils swelled to sweet ovaries.
Fruit bats and squirrels licked, then tasted all that ripened.
But what flavor was forbidden,
apple, orange, mango, purple passion?
Seeds passed through bowels unscathed,
then sprouted from a dung heap.
The shadowy wisdom of propagation brightened under the sun.
And in the surrounding dark forest, her hands parted leaves.
Eyes, hungry for light, peered out and were lured.
Long hair draped around her body,
snaking from her neck
all the way down to her legs.
But when she ventured out at eve of day,
her hair swayed freely from side to side,
rhythmically revealing, breasts, belly, and waist,
as she approached that singular tree.

Was there ever wisdom in the fruit or was it always with her--
she, who bravely walked from forest to clearing?