Sonnet #116

When the first fruits come on our perennial trees

The ones we planted years ago, watered, fed,

The ones we researched, cultivated, as well-bred,

When the first fruits come, there's only three

We see them green upon the branches, small

One will be thinned, so that one is gone

It will make the other two larger when done

Two will be eaten by the caterpillars and fall

A rotten mess upon the root, too late we saw

Too late to save. The third and final we absolve

of all sins, pour hope upon the roots and draw

the birds away with seed across the yard, revolve

around her daily, observe the color, feel the weight

We'll pick her unripe, overeager, and curse this fate