Here they are, plucking
the plushest, the ripest,
the most succulent;
Breathing in luscious perfumes;
Turning each over in their hands;
Dimpling soft flesh with their thumbprints
Yes, this one, yes, this one,
when chopped, when crushed, when battered,
when strained of hard lumps,
will produce something sweet.
To rot here
is to quietly nurture
Bronwyn writes about science, identity, logistics, geography, digital media, children, culture, social responsibility, time, love, marine biology, existentialism, civil engineering, strange things she almost certainly imagined, and anything related. You can find her @JOTfabulist.