I put my mouth again to
Fruit plucked by ink-stained hands from
Branches grown of Hill Country soil
Thin overlay on limestone
The plant put in it by hands browned
Not by sun
But by history stretching back
Through six flags
And further
The fuzz tickles my cheeks
My nose
My tongue
As I part its flesh
Sucking at the juices that flow from within
Nearly wallowing in them
As the heady scent surrounds me
And I cannot help but smile
It is no new metaphor
But that it is an old one
Does not mean it is not to be enjoyed
Fruits ripened taste better
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