I thought I knew what love was,
and picked it from the tree—
red and smooth, hard, round
filled with ruby seeds.
I picked it ripe and lovely,
I cupped it in my hands
but did not want to spill its juice
or tear its flawless skin.
And so I set it in a bowl
to admire it on the table
and I admired till I did not,
until I forgot to see it.
And the skin began to wither,
turned to leathered, sunken rind,
and the color lapsed to dullish rust
and the ruby seeds inside—
I never knew their sweetness,
never tasted their garnet juice.
What became of the weight of love,
this love I thought I knew?
Nice title, the “did not sing” part. A poem that fills in the blank. And I do think you’ve used the word “weight” perfectly in the end, after the fruit has vanished.
So…did you bury the shrunken, leathery fruit in the garden or the orchard, thereby sowing the seeds of love? Silly you: love’s definitely not, “For Display Purposes Only.”
“Ruby” seeds and their “garnet” juice.