Why is it that:
the thought of the end pinches us
and in a startled stupor we
check our ripeness, as if the juices
joyfully squeezed would pour onto the floor
at any moment.
we entertain the game that we must-
somehow- guard and collect them with our gourds
as if each drop can not be absorbed by the soil.
such time we spend in this frantic feat
that the seeds never take and the moisture never creeps
to the dirt slowly cracking it for the primeval penetration.
only, we collapse.
and spill the chalice of our fruited life
caught only to become a fruitless toil.
Why then do we not,
let the pulp drop.
Bend down and build a mound,
so a new tree will sprout
or erupt.