Fruit

In a garden where the mist still clings,
the apple’s blush, a ruby grin,
and pears that hum soft autumn songs,
all turn sweet in the light of morning.

The orange peels, a citrus hum,
breathe citrus green tea in summer's glee,
while grapes in jungles of vine,
waltz like wine‑soaked midnight stars.

A cluster of raspberries, bright,
edged in fragrant little shards,
their crimson glimmer, fleeting as breath,
the ruby harvest of the wind.

There’s the pepper‑sweet sap of figs,
their buttery heart held like a secret—
pages of orchards turned thin as paper,
telling the tale of sun, of rain.

Each bite is a small adventure,
a story of flavour, a secret kept tucked inside a flesh‑soft, tiny promise.

And when the night winds tumble courtyard green,
fruit finds its place in the twilight dream,
ready to drift into a cup of tea— a sweet silence sung for the night.