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.