Forbidden Fruit

When I see those August apples, swooping so low on the branch, glistening, rose coloured reflections in the heat

I can almost hear them begging to be plucked and savoured, held and caressed, treasured and adored

Yet I know it's too soon, this early in the season to be plucking them from the branch - though I want them to be ready, and willing - they're not

Bright and charming, beneath the surface, the sugars are not yet developed, the flavours surely not ready for the palate

And when I look close I can see that there was no beckoning at all, only hope and joy and a sense of promise

And I feel stupid for wanting one, for hoping one might fall into my hand, one that's near the top, looking more bold and grand than the others

Looking to need my warm breath and touch...

I wanted to be first to this sturdy tree, I wanted to win it over completely, to give flight to something wild and free

Reluctantly though, acceptance takes hold that I can love these apples from a distance - to appreciate their perfect evolution and to (once again) turn my attention inward

For the thing is, my own garden, though beautiful and fragrant, is waiting patiently for nourishment, appreciation and the kind of love that only I can give it

And my loneliness is but a symptom of my frenetic search for external validation, at the expense of my own soul

My state of mind, my yearning is chosen each day, from a multitude of other demeanor's, and worn like a misshapen sweater, constantly pulling and weighing me down

Exposure, embarrassment and even shame are gentle teachers - revealing to me that I still have long road ahead of me

But showing me also, the orchards that await, the fertility of my own soul and the promise that I won't always be alone

Looking back to the tree, I still want to reach, but instead I send my love and tend to my own garden, in a nearby patch

And I leave my shame, my neediness and my desire possess and be possessed back in the composter with all the other fodder - right where it belongs