Vol. 2. / 196.) We Do Not Know When It Is Ripe . . .

We do not know when it is ripe ---

That burgeoning fruit of love

That has grown from

The hurting place

But others will taste it

And though they will not

Tell you of it

They might enjoy it

For themselves, and eat it, and

From the pips, seed their own fruit

In the secret place: the holiest place of all

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