After nightfall, she leads me through a gate
into the garden behind the barn.
A floodlight nestled where the eaves meet
at the apex of the roof shines down.

There is a modest shrub whose amber fruit 
reaches from the shadows with many gnarled, 
elongated fingers, splayed in a gesture
that appears both to beckon and to bless.

Gently, she grasps one by the wrist, twisting 
it off a thorny branch, then gives it to me,
telling me to scratch its bumpy palm.
Citrus aroma wafts into my lungs
          when I inhale. For a moment, all I want 
          is to be naked, wrapped in each other’s arms.