Ripe

This is just a short poem I wrote the other night whilst I was at work, watching customers book-browse...

Ripe

6 Ripe words,
each ready to be picked.
each ready to fall
each ready to burst.
But who might pick them?
So high to the Sun - bold
and juicy and bursting with flavour.
Who might be brave enough
to reach along the most precarious of vines...
and pluck them - those sweet, soft promises
for themselves?
Better they be picked soon, though,
before they turn wrinkled, and old,
and sour.