Season about to begin
Carrying little basket
Hopping through the bushes
You could call it harvest

Sometimes sweet and red
Not so much green – sour
Close to the ground
Under shadow seeking sun

(But I hate sun)

Being gentle is a must
Otherwise tragedy happens
Hours into days
Until they’re ready

Not each matures
Leaving bitter aftertaste
Stubborn I know
I shouldn’t –

I wasn’t even hungry
Human-side calling
And I can’t leave them be
Pouring sweat down

So I didn’t realise
The basket already full
On my own quarter
My own heart
Couldn’t be helped

Overly simplic analogy? Searching for words to convey my thoughts is much harder than I though it would be.

4 thoughts on “Harvest

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