Black Fruit

I'm amazed of what I run into
When I leave the city
And go to the country
An elderly woman spoke to me
Told me a story
About her most prized possession
From her heyday
She pointed to her tree
In her back yard
She calls it "The Black Tree"
Periodically,
Her "Black Fruit" would hang from the tree
To proudly display for all to see
She expands my inquiring mind
Her and those alike would collect together
Only what they considered ripe
Ripe as in perfect for the moment
Offended highly for petty offenses
Anxious to pick their fruit over fences,
Back yards,
And some stranded on streets
Boundaries set for the fruit to exist
When lines are crossed
Sacred fruit is put back on the vine
No longer elusive
The community becomes illusive
In the practice of hanging "The Black Fruit"
Is a ritual embraced by her peers
Fruit is grown
Only to be devoured when ripe
The woman shows me pictures of the lynchings
As I stare at "The Black Tree"
I see
The rope is still there