The Whole Fruit Bowl

You used to favor certain seasons – falling for
the powerful delusion that each year described
self-evident gradations of a plenitude and emptiness –
inarguable, surely, that it waned and waxed –
and there were therefore perfectly good reasons
not to like, or like, the light or dark, or brown or green,

or cold or hot. But you relaxed. All strike you now
as equal necessary dancing vagaries of procreation:
continuous and endless involutions in the alternately
loose/tight evolution of the fight and flight of life.
All of which suggests, to you, a new and lurid fruit:
a mango/pear/pineapple/citron/eggplant/peach

whose shape, chromatic range and species-reach

invoke the bursting Summer in its oranges and golds;
the poignant Autumn in its purple-browny molds; greeny-
yellow fringes of the Spring; tinges of the Winter:
chilly bluish vapors splintering against the florid skin.
Every moment is the goal – the whole fruit bowl.

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