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?