Bearing Fruit

I wandered into you, seeking a place to

lay my head, a harbor to dock my

soul, a ground, sturdy enough to

grow my roots, I felt my way through

weeds, traveled un-tarred roads, fell

into bramble patches that scarred the

depths of my soul. So much so, my

nomadic roots cannibalized tears to make

dew in starved lands.

 

You saw my journey, roots hanging by

fibers, some dried to bone, you took the

sheers and preened them off, made room for

new roots, spoke life, shed love, watched it gather,

and gave nourishment to many times refurbished

joints. Laid with me a porous sponge. Said you would

bury your doubts, and fears, pray for something new, more

fresh, clean, something to build you when you

eat.

 

Fears and doubts soaked into my roots, mixed

with the harshness created from the roaming

genes. Attacked by antibodies, wrapped and

swallowed whole, those fears lost, the doubts

were re-purposed into dreams, not deferred but

renewed. I waited for the first  bud, and lost

leaves, shaking, anxious, waiting for you to see

the expected fruit.

 

You ran your hands through, felt the smooth

skin, admired the shine and give, you plucked your

choice, said it resembled a lasting sin, took a bite, closed

your eyes, reminisced, and saw new beginnings. Fear to

hope, while thoughts of death spoke now to food for your

soul. Your thumb and forefinger met, separated by thin

cased fluid you gifted to flow, I watched the thought, saw

it grow, knew I would stay watered, you needed the fruit.

You needed to be whole.

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