I've grown accustomed to this place...

This fruit we bear is heavy,
and so it is
that prior to its birth
we send out tendrils,
clinging to whatever is near
and offering support.

But now,
now that the fruit is gone,
whether plucked,
or withered into dry, hard lumps
of lost opportunities,
why are these tendrils still in place?
Why stay connected,
now the life we bore is lost?

Brown and brittle,
these anachronistic bonds break easily, and fall to the ground,
yet still I rest here,
no longer tied
but grown accustomed to the closeness.

Perhaps I'll doze here now
anesthetized in the comfort of your arms,
and while we are sleeping and dreaming of spring
the secateurs will come to prune us back
so we may bear fresh fruit.


* * *