She waits for him, at last mature
He trembles and his belly stirs
He tugs at her, not hard, but firm
And hauls her, ripe, from leafy loom
He sniffs her bloom, tangled and tight
Then takes a cautious, probing bite
And her juice spills, it flows down her cheek
He licks the sticky, pungent streak
Then turns and nods once to his sons
“The fruit is set. We pick at dawn.”
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