FRUIT

Breath stirs the leaves of my chest.
Limbs ache with joy in motion.
Eyes open. Light trembles on every curve.
Color bends, birds trill, grass bows in the wind.

All creation answers the pulse in me.

Hunger rises, not emptiness, but appetite
for flavor, touch, and sound—
the sweetness of what I have not known.
Fruit hangs heavy with sun and dew,
its perfume bending branch and thought.

I reach.

Fingers trace contours, cool, firm, and alive.
It will make me feel, make me see, make my mind sing.

At the garden’s heart, a tree hangs heavier still,
its scent spilling like a whispered dare,
a shadow curling at the edges.
Its presence strikes the spine, setting every nerve alight.

The choice is mine.
And it feels like everything.