When I was a young boy, I first tasted of your fallen fruits
And knew them as the bitter taste of life.
As an older man, I’ve tasted you again and once again:
The unripe fruits of harvest plucked too early for their years.
I sit and taste of you right now and wonder at your rind
And sit and wonder and sit and wonder when it will be my time.
The fruit crushed under foot
Ripened in the sun
A mealy paste forgotten
By all who walk above.