Sin
The worst part is failing to kiss the ground each morning.
Or the cold pot of resentment stirred and simmered
well into the evening. Everything else comes from this,
grows.
It wouldn’t be so bad if such immense portions of good fortune
weren’t squandered each hour, minutes the long dead
would ransom eternity to regain.
Even now, ripe apples lie rotting casually about the floor,
single bites taken from each—there is no worm, no snake…
only this failure to praise.
This is one of my favorite poems, I suppose, published in Freshwater by Edwina Trentham. I was surprised and pleased to see her refer to the poem as one of her favorites too in an interview published in BEAD.