Photo by Allec Gomes on Unsplash
That Season turned
and with it the perfection of the fruit.
Sun-stretched and toned,
soon bloomed sugars ripened past their date
the added age
took sweetness from too patient mouths,
each day inching -
withering with over-reach.
One fruit touches
another of its kind
and spreads the spoil
tarnishing the lot.
The taste is lost.
What’s left is rot.
About the Creator
G. Douglas Kerr
I am a hermit and sometimes come out of my shell.
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