Not Yours For The Picking

In the midst of groves, I met a soul,
Held a pretty apple gold.
A bite had he took, a third was shoved,
Leaving two third hurtful gold.

"Why did you try?" to him I told,
This he replied, morosed,
"I wasn't smart enough to know.
Let me make the missing grow."

Second perchance, I re-met this ghoul,
With the same apple gold.
Another bite he had took, two third had dove,
Leaving the last third alone.

"Why did you try?" to which he croaked,
Voices that guilt had rode,
"I wasn't wise enough to know.
Let me replace the empty cove."

Alas, it ends, when I had met this troll,
No longer with an apple gold.
The last part tore, and it had closed
The only chance to grow.

"Why did you do?!" I barked, I scolded,
To the endless tears he rolled.
"I thought that I had to let it go,
In my hands it couldn't grow..."

"So listen to me," this truth I told,
"This apple wasn't yours for picking.... No,
It has to be free, not trapped in gloves.
Move on, move on, and throw."

I resumed the path of golden groves,
Where it grew
Gold Cherries, Berries,
Sweet strawberries,
and the boldest Blackcurrants,
Pears, Pomegranate,
Melons, Jacks and Greens,
Dragons and Passions....... although....
Looking back, not one could come close
To the core he couldn't let go.

- Henry Rogers