Penchant

It has fallen

from the vine. At first

just bruised, a little brown,

but fine. It stretched and wiggled

as the worm caressed it, and left it,

alone, molested. time weights and sun

sinks the once firm pulp which sighs and links

its molecules to those that waste away.

and everything seems to come and

feast and suck and eat and say

thanks for all the greats and

goods which the green

vine gives.

And truly they were

thankful for it.