In her Fall

From her solum vantage point
she pines,
craving the heat of summer
where she hung heavy and ripe,
lush in his eye line
and bent boughs.

What once whett appetites
now barely raises interest
like leftovers on a plate
wrapped to preserve
just in case he wants
another bite.

Fallen,
she litters the ground softly
expelled,
fermenting in her skin
she resists the coolness of winter
and waits to be

collected by conniseurs of waste
not, wanton not
preserved and sweetened
she’s spread thick
to taste what was

or crushed to extract
what’s left of her, ironically
full-bodied and flavoursome,
an aged libation
for lovers of acidic youth
and complexity.

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