The fruit has ripened.
But it hangs high on the tree.
It will ripen further and die,
Slowly.
The sun will hit it hard.
The moon will not help at all.
The best thing for it to do is
Fall.
Birds may help it perhaps,
Maybe a strong breeze,
A god may help, if it says
Please.
Knowing providence though,
It’s more likely to hang and rot,
It’s one of those things that love just
Forgot.
It does look tasty and juicy,
But it’s so very, very high,
I might as well give up before I
Try.
Hearts Still Care 