The word was ever,

to handle with care

the early fruit.

Apple blush;

peach perfect;

unblemished,

soft-skinned,

easily bruised.              

 

Today, trust is gone.

I may not comfort;

hold a hand;

or wipe away a tear,

without curious glances.

I can no longer touch,

But, then again,

I never touched before.

 

How can I walk

the ever-narrowed

p.c.- straightened path?

Without nurture,

the fruit may wither.

Without the hand to hold,

who knows where

the path may lead.