19/09/2012 § 2 Comments
Gently brushing soil away
to expose my roots.
I quake, despite the delicacy of the touch,
from fear and anticipation.
How fragile, how beautiful,
how complex I appear.
People wait for my fruit, my seeds.
some part of me they can share in.
They’ve been patient.
How I fear that my seeds will be bitter,
My fruit sour, unripe.
I can water and nourish my roots,
breathe soft endearments to my leaves.
But I can’t rush the ripening.
For it depends on soil, and sun,
And wind, and rain, and bees.
It depends on love.