I stand beneath your canopy,
in the cool shade of summer leaf and active vine,
will this year be fruitful?
I take into my hand your rounded hardness,
pressing my finger and thumb against your skin.
Yet, you do not give;
your days still numbered.
I watch the dappled light fall beneath your spread,
the wind shifting your pattern,
sky whisps dance across my flesh,
and my heart surrenders.
How short our time is.
Soon your juice will grow,
your vine will drop bare –
like flakes of skin
dying – slowly.
Come August end our time shall pass-
when the reaper rakes his harvest-
and there I’ll stand
below your naked vine – unsheltered.
And while you rest within the soil,
your root firmly planted,
protected from the coming cold,
I’ll wait through winter.
Because though our time is short,
there’s always hope there’ll be another.
© KMcGee – 2015