Alphabet Soup Minuscule

J.C. Scheff

The Fruit We Plant.


Somewhere, in the nights silence. 

In your soft breathing,
Your chest rising up and down with the turning of the fan.

I look to the left of me and all I see is the dead tops of trees.
To the right of me, the freckles on your back.

I plant small kisses on them.
Like a bright eyed child with a handful of seeds and her knees in the soil.
Waiting for the first strip of green.
 Except,
I always end up with the backs of things.

Things that are beautiful and vibrant for awhile
But, they age and become less enticing. And,
I worry I become too much.
Not enough.

Yet, my eyes sparkle.
And my thighs are sturdy,
My heart strong.
Strong amongst wandering minds.

Yet, I know the seeds will grow as long as we feed them.
As long as we love them.
In turn, the fruit we plant,
Will feed us and I can lick the juices from your lips.
As you taste what we have made from our hands.

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