gain

Waxy fruit squeaky between my fingers. It’s the sound snow peas make as they are being twisted for the table. Berries that droop lower and lower, weighty with juice. It’s a race to catch them before they free fall to the mulch below, or are marred by the birds. Crimson draws all the life. The birds, the hens, the humans. We love the sweet savorings of the ripest fruits. Big fat bumblebees moving in and out of the dark sunflower centers, like they’re stitching a garment. They pierce the bed head again and again. The ray flowers blaze like the sun. And again, with the draw. Our faces long to feel it. Our countenance, reflect it. We want to take it into ourselves and grow round with its goodness and brilliance. Oh, the gain that is the garden