Bounty

Beautiful

10/15/16

There is peace in the cucumber vine,
Particularly the lemon kind.
Its fruit small but plenty
On a proliferous, hardy vine.
If not daily,
At least once a week
Its fruits fill a shoebox
Or two to their peaks.
I reintroduce myself
And peer intently
As the produce; though proud and vibrant,
Hides and may elude me.
If I am without genuine care,
I may not see this one
Or that one over there.
I walk the vine, both sides
Probably three times,
Weighing which are ready.
Some big, some small.
All spiny!
(But that is a little thing!)
Its early bearings are
Quick to go to seed,
As if first on its list
Is to proliferate:
Birth something by which
To outlive itself.
Later: massive outpourings of shapely,
succulent delights.
Lastly: not as large,
And a great deal quirkily shaped,
as it pushes to the end despite the weather
(the breath of Winter's steed).

And what do I see
In this bountiful Beauty before me?

ME.