Autumn Kitchen

THE paring knife slits through the round
Of rusty plum or spotted peach;
These too-late hanging still are sound,
The veins are full; at heart of each

Lies the blind seed, the foreign shape
Bedded in silk but walled with stone;
The blade stops short, the mind agape
Holds as the hand, the thing unknown,

The principle, the furious will
So to protect, make bloom, keep whole
Fruit and more fruit, rout chaos, fill
An Eden or my canning bowl.