We all hang on

Vines some of us

Are picked but most

Of us spend forever

Hanging and basking in

The sun and shiver

In the night hoping

But never ever knowing

For certain that the

Sun will warm again

Those are the those

Who choose to wither

They choose comfort over

Discomfort they choose to

Be next years compost

Rather than this years

Yield how you may

Ask then how does

One on the vine

Who isn’t picked become

Part of the yield

They time their jump

Precisely into the hands

Of the picker most

Fail but isn’t the

Hope of being something

Else worth the risk

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