Fresh

Their growing fruits were bought and bred
To cultivate even the choosiest pickers
On trees that present alive and dead
Greyed bark with produce bright and wistful

At times, my heart would petrify to think
Of engorging on these evening berries
My chin askew to their sweetened stink
As others feasted, full and carefree

But there are those that taste of Dad is home
There are flavors of Mom’s bedtime stories
Some apples plump with the plastic bones
Of blocks and toys on Christmas morning

Those ripened, fresh fruits call so gently
As though I can barely hear their pleas
Looking past the planters’ sins aplenty
I can see magic blooming on their trees

Yes, let pistols fire vibrant lasers
Give me vigilantes clad in black
I’ll take teenage heroes braving danger
To have a taste of childhood back

And if I cannot sate this youthful urge,
I know the seasons bring fresh harvests

Surely, if I pick on, the best is yet to come

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Copyright © Vincent C. Russo 2022. All Rights Reserved.