Ripen

My son points out that my skin looks old, 
that it’s made of tiny triangles.
It’s not criticism,
not compliment,
said with an air of almost-worry.
I’ve noticed, but don’t say,
the dryness, the creasing,
that I now sound like paper.
The water that once made me plump
and soft has been syringed out,
the ground of me is baking,
I am drying, opening up.

Fruit ripens on the vine—
as full as it can get, 
the sun sweeten, 
sweeten, sweetens the fruit 
until it drops.
At some point life becomes
a concentration, I don’t say;
a saturation of who we are,
an extraction of who we’re not.
We become an essence of self,
I think, but don’t tell him.

It’s a good thing, this drying out,
this autumnal signal. 
Time to deepen the flavour,
let complexity take over—
a note of this, a hint of that—
be pungent and decadent
and ripen.
I don’t say there’s more drying
to come. I don’t say
I’m not frightened.