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How nice would it be to just drop from the tree, fall from forking branches a ripened fruit thudding your weight to earth without distraction, without option—thrust to ground under gravity's current to be gathered up and eaten or left there to decay and deposit that seed from the core of your being into the little plot of your death, lush ring of your composted fertilizing flesh.

How nice would it be to just drop from the tree, fall from forking branches a ripened fruit thudding your weight to earth without distraction, without option—thrust to ground under gravity's current to be gathered up and eaten or left there to decay and deposit that seed from the core of your being into the little plot of your death, lush ring of your composted fertilizing flesh.

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Patrick Bryant
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