Pungent pockets of tart jubilant juiciness –
they are hidden everywhere,
under a hard discolored exterior,
scattered in the very fiber of the essence of all that is.
Plunging my hand through dense dailiness in hope,
nails slicing through the pulp, tired and torn,
my fingers find the smooth skin of possibility.
Do I gentle my grasp, surround this precious joy with all that I am,
keeping it whole and warm and secret?
How do I know when instead to squeeze? Exploding the divine liquor,
allowing it to seep and sweep around my fingers,
flooding my palms, my arms, my soul with nourishing promise of this and something more?
At every age, juiciness is ours to find,
the heart is knowing when to let it out.