Fruit.

Breath stirs the leaves of my chest;
limbs ache with joy in motion.
Eyes open.
Light trembles on every curve,
each color shivers, bends.
Birds trill, wind bows the grass—
all creation whispers back
to the pulse in me.

A hunger rises; not empty, but
deep and pressing,
craving flavor, touch, sound—
the sweetness of the unknown.

Fruit hangs, dripping sun and dew.
Perfume thick on the air, round and
perfect,
bending branch and
thought.

A tremor
running along the stem. 
I reach. Fingers trace contours:
cool, firm; warm, soft—
Sensual.
Immediate.
It will make me feel,
it will make me see,
it will make my mind
sing.

At the garden’s heart,
a tree hangs heavy,
scent spilling like a whispered dare,
shadow curling at the edges.
A thrill—
more than knowing, more than tasting,
a pulse that strikes my spine,
sets every nerve alight.

The choice is
mine.
And it feels like everything.