NECTARINES 

It stood there 

in my backyard 

among the other trees

so unassuming,

aloof nearly,

its secret safely 

cloaked in the silence 

of its green leaves,

like a dream

in sleep.

For a year it kept 

its secret silent 

and unseen,

and then yesterday

it let one of its hidden

treasures, that had grown,

it seemed, overnight,

fall to the ground:

a nectarine. At first glance 

I thought it was an apple

from the my neighbor’s yard.

But all that changed

when I knelt down 

and put my hand on it

and felt its softness, its ripeness.

This was no forbidden fruit.

On one knee 

I looked up 

to see among my

tree’s branches

more orbed ornaments, 

the sensual contours 

and colors 

in full bloom,

dangling there, 

waiting to be plucked

as if to say, 

Surprise, surprise.

This is who I am.

No more secrets.

I promise. Humans 

do this too: We take

our sweet time

before pulling back 

the curtain 

of the self,

before saying 

Here I am.

I am ready for you

to see me,

I am ready to trust,

to share my fruit

with you. Safety 

is a garden

whose plenty 

can’t be rushed.