Unpicked Fruit

Ripe fruit is sweet.
But unpicked fruit is sweeter.

In earliest Spring
The sap is sweetest.
It rises from the roots,
Awakening new life and feelings.
It collects between two long limbs
And awaits the wise old man
Who can make it flow.

But there is no birth without death,
No creation without destruction.
This is a law both sacred and cruel.

So with old but practiced hands
The man forces the limbs
To release their sweet nectar,
Then pulls the fruit he craves,
Against the resistance of the limbs,
Till he breaks it free.

The fruit once taken
Can never return again.

As the man takes his prize,
The sweet juices run down his cheek.
He smiles,
Casts aside the fruit,
And walks away.