Now, I’ve returned.
Now, we’ve again met.
It was nice seeing
her again.
Now what?

My enthusiasm is not
rampant.
My desire is not
intense,
unlike the past.

But I’m not ambiguous, either.

I’m calm,
waiting,
like sap within
an old apple tree’s roots
after a long winter.

It waits to be warmed
by spring sun’s rays.
To rise up
and flow out
and push the buds
into blossoms
that explode
inscentandcolorandbeauty
and eventually
bear sweet fruit.

Outside, pink-red
like her lips and skin.
Inside, light gold
like her hair,
moist like the sap
that is starting, now, to move.

With stem to twist
and ask,
at harvest,
“Now what?”

Pick, and taste,
and savor the sweetness
and nourishment
.
Or ignore
until the fruit
grows past
what it could have been
and falls,
unnoticed,
to the ground,
where it bruises,
and turns brown
and sour
and rots.