Eve

 

Pick the first apple
From the tree,
Polish it against
My Love
Until it glows
With deepest red
To match your heart.


Pick the first plum,
Fall through its
Darkness into soft
Reflection
Of the sweetness
Curved so tightly in,
And say we'll never part.


Pick the first grape,
And press the Vintage
On through years
Becoming all too soon
The past,
Until the cup
Of both our lives
Is drained at last.


Pick the first
Apple
From the tree,
Be Eve,
To
Me.

 

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