By the calendar,
I was the elder
when we met in the
distant green of Cumberland Gap.

But my early blackberry heart
was still too green for you.

So with your rich, crystal timbre
you felled me. You told me
to leave you.

# # # #

However, buried in the bitter fruit
of your rejection

were the hard seeds
of future sweetness.

Watered by the pattering rain
of your name in my head,
with each season I deepen,
and richen in hue.

Stained with your attar,
I’m a marked man, waiting
for ripening.