They've come for my apricots again.
They're a little early this year.
Seems each year they get younger.
Only their youth would bring them
for May's apricots in April.

They are anxious though
for the glory of plundered fruit.
Those of us that preceded them
know the compulsion.
I feel for them, envy them.

Wish it in my power
to ripen the fruit for them
a swipe of my hand
a snap of my fingers
a mere wish.

Dreams, for I have no such power.
I will do what I can for them.
Look there, a young one not more than five.
Too new to hide, standing in the open
the others belly crawl, inching their way

I said I would do what I could for them
and I will with a perfectly timed slam
of the screen door
a loud cough, a "Heh!, you kids"
leaving them reaching before the scramble.

It never fails
one ( the oldest, the leader)
manages one golden
one magical grasp.
One trophy

It is a game played out
since fruit trees first beckoned
A right of passage not easily sidestepped
nor snickered at
I'm glad I've been allowed to play.

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