A fruit story

It was a fruit I never meant to have.
I wasn’t fond of fruits.
Never thought I would be.

On a dull day,
it leaned over the fence toward me,
as if the whole orchard had chosen for it to fall into.
Its skin was soft in places,
the kind of softness storms leave behind.

I didn’t go looking for it.
It offered itself,
and I, curious , let it stay.
It asked nothing at first,
just sat there in the sun.
But seasons passed.
I found myself pouring water,
shooing away the birds,
adjusting my days around its shade.

It ripened slow,
I gave it the best of my yard and cared for it whole.
Because in its weight, I found something true.

Then one day, without warning,
its branch bent towards the other side.
No storm, no fight.
just a quiet shift in the roots,
as if it had always been looking elsewhere.

I feel the sting.
A quiet ache,
of not being the one to keep it fed.
But if its thriving where it stands,
At least its where I want it to be.

Now it hangs far from my reach.
I see it getting ripe.
I find it get the care.
I don’t cross the fence,
I don’t look too long,
I just let the days turn over.

Even if it leaned back towards my yard,
the gates aren't mine to open.
Still I think,
if one day I had a yard of own,
there would be space kept,
just for its roots.