Too Late

And now you would want the fruits
of my autumn tree,
you who spent whole seasons
in your malignant game
undressing me of gems and buds.
The branches low by now
are sticks, withered leaves.
The fruits are up,
in the arms of foliage,
to the sun, to the sky,
where you have never been,
where you don't know how to get to

August 10, 2004