The Last Crop
I have become the last crop,
Before the frost.
That one piece of produce,
That has built my many roots deep,
Into the earth.
The yield you save till the very end,
And then pull on me gently.
With each skive of your thick fingers,
You take with you a little more of me.
To prune me from this place I have,
Become accustomed to.
This place that has kept me,
Warm and secure.
Still, I have one less root driven below.
I have one less temerity.
I wonder if my color is still bright,
If my flesh is still worthy of your lips.
Though I am bruised,
My avowel is imperturbability.
I am aplombed in my shape, my firmness.
To the hands who will,
Pluck me from this ground.
To keep me, show me.
He is not the knight,
But the sword.