Vines no longer hold us.
We are too ripe, to rich
Ripe women fall.
We release the vine
because it can no longer claim us
Succulent, dripping with nectar,
heavy for the bite.
We smile at the taut young fruit,
admiring it’s pluckability
but desirous of our own ripening.
We ripe ladies harbor secrets
we choose to dark plum, orange white nectarine,
that softened apple
which curls its invitation
to the soft pull,
the ravenous bite.
We have seen seasons turn
the blush of spring, full, gloating summers,
the cure and cool of hoarfrost’s coming
and we have borne
Clingling to vine for the right of it
hoarding our delights
as gleefully as we adore
for our bounty.
But we harbor our place in the arbor
knowing that what’s picked last