No mellow fruitfulness this summer: Reds
Crown softened hearts that set us free, once fast-
Held, still-to-be-enjoyed, they rear their heads
These berries-of-the-field: Now spring is past.
Next June is kissed goodbye with sticky lips
As pink-to-green anticipates the fall
To sidewalks, sinks; must we say, given pits,
One pepper proves superior to them all?
A weapon’s thrown at season’s end: Like blood
Be-spattered on the walls. Once more assay
The bitter-sweet, but waken not the bud
Until it please; Then put the pearls away.
The market fills with ripeness to the core–
Conspire to bless (if not the fruit) their lore.