High

The fruit has ripened.
But it hangs high on the tree.
It will ripen further and die,
Slowly.

The sun will hit it hard.
The moon will not help at all.
The best thing for it to do is
Fall.

Birds may help it perhaps,
Maybe a strong breeze,
A god may help, if it says
Please.

Knowing providence though,
It’s more likely to hang and rot,
It’s one of those things that love just
Forgot.

It does look tasty and juicy,
But it’s so very, very high,
I might as well give up before I
Try.

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timing

I couldn’t say I need you
When you smiled and said you had a reason
To not wake me with a kiss.
Kisses are to be timed.
Like doctor’s appointments
Or the schedules of trains.
I couldn’t say I need you
Because your smile was meant for me
To forget that I do.
It was a smile that was perfect
And timed so that I would not notice
That some appointments and trains
Are always late.

The Trend.

I watched the waves.
They crashed into the rocks.
A done-to-death metaphor.

I saw the foam stick.
I saw the spray hit the air.
While you slept.
Blissful.
The trend of all lovers.
Once the passion is dead.

The sea will recede.
The rocks at least have faith.
The sea will return.

I walk back home.
To my side of the bed.
Sleepless and faithless.