There on the vine, the tiny red ball has grown.
Despite time and drought, it is there, hanging
Delicious and tempting
But small and misshapen
Clinging in the mist and rain
To the home that grew it
The vine that was deliberately placed and cared for
The flower that opened and turned
Ready, but not ready.
It hopes, yearning to be the desired one,
Cupped in a hand that could easily crush it
Wanting the touch, but loving the vine
Paused between for just a moment
It lets go
and is devoured.
Nichole M. Dulin
photo by KZB