Sick in High Summer

Fecund, fettered, falling and frayed
Stay in bed till 3
Won't you?
With me?

Are some things too sweet to last,
Rotting gently, pooling
Sickly syrup sticks to tongues,
And leads to sugar spittle

The fresh and white blossoms of spring
Long gone, long composed
Leave us bearing fruit, won't you?
Please?

Then go back on your word when they fall

And there is fruit in abundance