Fruition

Mid the frosty famine December brings,
the gnarly trees denuded by the cold,
a lone survivor tenaciously clings—
determined, it looks flushed, but will not fold;
its flesh a feast of knowledge we once thought
was worth the price projected, so we bought
into the naked lies that we were told

by our burgeoning, adolescent pride.
But who hasn’t bungled when they were young?
Coerced by little whisperings inside
(a snake’s only appendage is its tongue)
we were just too impatient to ignore
the promise of enlightenment in store
which nothing we ingested quite supplied.

As days begin to shorten we are vexed
by unresolved conclusions and regrets,
this rainy winter day leaves me perplexed
but hopeful as the sun serenely sets,
to see this often evanescent fruit
remain so deeply red and resolute
is truly as delicious as it gets.