photosynthekiss
You can’t know what you are
In my world.
I’ll tell you every day.
But you can’t know.
You feed to me either with pieces of me I’ve
Long ago harvested and left
In baskets by the trail;
or pieces left to rot on the vine.
You cast a nourishing brightness on acres left
Fallow,
Unsown,
And yet there grows fruit for wine.
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