Morning has swallowed whole the night
and out of its belly is teased the day,
dripping with invitation to ingest what gifts
are ripe and waiting. The tree of good and best
sits silently in the midst of the garden
and beckons me to investigate. Look
not for the reddest, brightest fruit,
blushed and bursting, it says.
Look instead for the fruit which looks for you,
pregnant with promise. Let it choose you.
Bite into it with abandon and let God anoint you
with the juice running down your chin that aims first
at your mouth, too full to speak,
then to your heart, hiding beneath your shirt
and to your feet, now wet and sticky but ready
to leave this place where other mouths
are hungry for fruit.