A perfect pare.
So ripe and fair.
To have you there
A perfect pair.
No one to stare
Where
The perfect pare hangs
Within easy reach of hands
That desire
To quench a fire.

The love of fruit
Is At the root
Of the fall from grace.
A place
Called Paradise, where Eve ate the apple.
The sunlight no longer dapples
Eden’s Lawns
where innocent fawns
Where wont to Play.
Or so the moralists say.
All this will pass away
But I have fruit today …