the fruit picker

his hands itch at the sight
of ripeness out of reach
fingers curl around the 
season and he thanks god 
for the daily bread


the scent teases his tonque
and his eyes swim in joy
to covet and trespass
are rights demanded
by his nature


he does not wait for the
fruit to rot and drop
time is not the 
fruit picker's despite
his nature, he has the sun