these things are best written about later,
when you could be anyone, and I can lie
(as heartsick yet composed narrator)
about small things, like *'I really tried.'

Unwrapping you,
right to the
hard stone centre;
the juice,
the pips
and the skin of you,
yielding

Enveloping you,
down to your
pithy whiteness;
your zest,
your aroma
and sugared flesh,
tempting

Understanding you,
right to the
timely autumn ripeness;
the colour,
the pallor
the new shined skin,
rising

Needing you,
down to the
sweet cool moments;
the flavour,
the fullness
the simple satisfaction,
lying

At morn—at noon—at twilight dim—
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
In joy and wo—in good and ill—
Mother of God, be with me still!
When the Hours flew brightly by,
And not a cloud obscured the sky,
My soul, lest it should truant be,
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee
Now, when storms of Fate o’ercast
Darkly my Present and my Past,
Let my future radiant shine
With sweet hopes of thee and thine!

You are
delicious
And I am
greedy.
You are
generous
And I am
needy.
You are
experienced
And I am
learning.
You are
flammable
And I am
burning.