Fruit as a foreign object, pollen cloud pointing south 

to signal its demise downwind

Slacken the rhythm and soon you’ll learn

the daunting wood-greyness of charcoal 

In spite of the fire, ripening seams of sugar 

and a displacement of earth

Fretful hands scatter over their makework 

with watery grace, as languid fingers spiral

Then discard the peel, yet still 

they reveal such colours as these.