Plucking and Rolling
You’re not ripe
you’re as green as the
spring leaves that
drift into sad browns
in the fall.
But I want to pluck you
anyway
and peel your green skin
revealing a milky fruit.
I’ll shower you in limes and salt.
I want to make emerald stripes on my white shorts
rolling and bumping
around in that delightful green moss.
It’s spring but you’re not
ready to savor the greens
with me, and partake in high tea.
You’re too green and you’ll sit hoping,
waiting to turn a nice safe yellow.
But I still want you as green as you can be.
