To the Bitter End
Beneath the soil the roots go wide and deep,
a hidden country the small fruit never sees—
threads and tunnels, mineral and seep,
the whole dark architecture of the plant’s unease.
Above, the vines reach out and take what they can hold,
coiling over fences, claiming every stake,
grasping for a life that will not let them fold,
until the garden is a green they make.
Then the fruit: cool, clean, a little sweet,
from pale blossom to the curve that fits the hand.
For a while they are exactly what we eat
when we want the day to taste of water and of land.
But leave them hanging past their hour
and the skin goes dull, the flesh turns hard and mean.
The sweetness sours. Color drains. The power that kept them bright withdraws, and they grow lean.
There is a moment when the stem should let them go—
when the system that once fed them starts to take.
Winter is already in the wind. They know.
The ripe ones loosen, drop, and do not break.
Stay in tact. Fall while you are still yourself,
before the vine decides what you become.
The ground is waiting. So is everything else.
Stay sweet. Come down. Do not grow numb.
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