The sun’s glare tears through the orchard’s canopy,
dapples grass and leaves.
A first budding presumption of nature
hangs fragile from a lowly bough.
percolate and permeate its juvenile core.
As sun and moon play catch and kiss,
celestial chase of aeons,
and nature’s bud grows, more sure
of its place in the world.
The chase continues
but the pace slows.
Our bud, ripe and red,
no longer juvenile,
but strong and lush,
rocks and readies
for the fall of age,
The distant world rushes forward,
eager to greet, anxious to meet
nature’s daring presumption,
who unprepared, is battered and bruised
by the world’s callus enthusiasm,
thuds and rolls,
stops and lolls.
A last vestige of nature’s presumption
sits fragile on the leafy ground.
permeate and percolate its senile core.
The world rots away
as sun and moon
catch and kiss and play.