JAMIE O’HALLORAN

Lunch Note

By noon, steam abandoned its way of being water.
Lentils curled in the gills of mushroom shells,
rapt in their dreams to be pearls.
I saw how tastefully the rain had strung
the garden baroque with oranges of the future.

I was taught to tell seasons by their fruit
and the gatherings of wool under the citrus moon.
Later, I learnt to begin with the smallest pot.