At The Pond

He has decided they are berries.
I am not so sure. I say,

let us come back. Maybe tomorrow
or the next day. Let us see

what these round, fat, green ovals do.
One is hinting pink. He can sense its ripeness

- like Mama when deep sleep must be
interrupted to protect his milk supply -

it might become strange, lush
and full if he does not pluck it fast.

But, he nods. I caress wet, red,
wild splayed rose petals.

She may open tomorrow or the next
day, like this one. Let us see

how everything changes
when we aren’t looking

or even as we wait
in verdant silence observant .