Of fruit that's growing strong to keep attention.
The ripest waits on top of treetops picked;
and some may say it's rude to leave unmentioned
the ones on lower shelves not touched nor kissed.
Fair women have the juice that's smooth and melts,
I fall in love when voices pale are heard.
So touch my hand to know the love I've felt,
my eyes will tell of all I've seen and learned.
It's real to try and find and give it chase.
My open mind behind is trusting plumes;
now failing time with lines to guide my face,
my hands will shake with letters wrote to you.
That voice is pure so live amongst the sound
ashamed in this to sing her notes so proud.