Am I ripe.
If I withhold each harvest
And save them all up
And let you reap
A lifetime of summers
In some grand festival,
Will my juices run
All the sweeter for it.

Will your fingers
Tussle my foliage,
Find my shaded fruits,
And pluck me.
And savour me.
So you can repose in my
Garden, wine-soaked,
Redolent of me.

Or will crows feast on my
Fermented flesh, grow
Intoxicated on the
Possibilities of
Me.
I can sate their
Base needs, but
I never bloomed for them.

Or will I rot.
Overripen on the vine
In my fallow fields.
Splatter to the earth
Untouched by even the most
Desperate of mouths
And sink into the soil
And never flower again.

Penned by my hand on the 7th of Chronos, in the year 872 AF.