Air Popper

Some kernels are precocious,
first in their class.
Once the ice is broken,
many more dive in,
like a game where hearts
are trump.
Isn’t it always that way?
The last kernels pop
like Fifth of July firecrackers.
In the end, it is all the same.
Each is given to salt
and anointed in butter;
if everything that blooms, dies,
surely every kernel that pops
is eaten.
It is true that all poems
are about death.
We come to them hungry
and they feed us.

About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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