Rays of light peek through
Branches of fruit, sweet and tart,
Our own giving tree.
It takes sensitive lips to detect
Borders of sweet and tart beneath
Shades of purple nested among the narrow leaves.
I don't need to stick in my thumb
To pull out a plumb, thus proclaiming myself
Good to the bone and worthy of
Flowing into senescence beneath its shade.
This fruit is not for unctuous poets
To twist into saccharine words, justifying
Parsimonious tendencies by impugning
Those with the clairaudience to
Offer baskets overflowing with fruit to
Those who can't reconcile how to
Harmonize the sweet and tart in their own dreams.
When I reach for each fruit with all five fingers, I
Am mindful of a purity that drips down my hand, a
Blend of extremes that
Tingles the tongue with promises of poetry
That touch the soul.
How do I give back
To natural perfection.
Is thank you enough?