When I fruit it’s like I’m asking
what if all your fruitfulness
is the color of roses or
your newborn baby’s lips or
that dress you wore the first time
he kissed you or Christ’s garment
in that icon, the moment he blesses
the children, the one with his hand
cradling that little girl’s hair, or
your beloved’s gums when he
or she smiles so wide you forget
everything else in your life — or
what if fruitfulness is as sweet
and tart as a ripe strawberry
or blackberry or plum
you’ve just bitten into, begun
to chew, the juice escaping
to your lips, staining
the corners of your face — what if
it is so. And you, going about
the toil of your life, the toil
you call mundane, blinding, that toil
you tend to hate, what if
you could know all the fruit
of your toil by how easy
it is to see — how lovely —
how heady
and fleeting?