It was

the small graft that took, the barely green
patched into the rootstock of another. Or
whip and tongue, cleft together. Meaning,
a wound is made to shorten the time 
it takes to fruit or flower.  Virgil wrote 
of where the buds push forth amidst 
the bark, and burst the membranes  
thin, but we only talk about toughening 
the skin. Legends say the dimpled fruit,
bruised by a forest fairy's fingers, turned
from bitter to syrup in the mouth. Every
change adds another layer. How fortunate
we are to pick and choose what to leave
behind, what to make part of our insides.