I ached for that harvest,
And tended you as best I knew
With hands, heart and later
with hope-heavy resolve.
Daring to taste ahead sometimes
but only very little.
Only in my mind.  
The days were early then,
so faith was modest and weak
as a newborn.
You were in an infancy of my making.
Birthed from an appetite that longed for sweetness,
but wearied during the ripening.

Restlessly watching for the shift to blessed fruition.
That moment when you would be no readier,
and would eagerly be reaped.
Poor Gardner me, too careful.
Shyly waiting for you to come to perfection.
Foolishly letting you whither on the vine.
All I have now is the taste of what you could have been,
Sweet on the lips of my mind.