fruit basket

If the fruits could talk they would say – hey, look over here people. Take us home.  No, not back to your homes where you will cut us up.  Home.  Home to where we once were part of the soil, where our mother branches held us so delicately up to the sun.  Home where our seeds were going to fall into the land and germinate into big dreams, sturdy trunks that could last a century. 

If the fruits could move then they would be jumping out of the baskets, dodging people and rolling as fast as they could away from each other.  Crowded together here, they have lost purpose.  When they were growing up their mother whispered to them how they were destined to plant roots, take hold of the earth and transform sunshine and water into something tangible and real.  Only a few of the very smart ones realise that their chances of doing this are decreasing, rapidly, by the day.  The others keep waiting, waiting for their long journey to be over, waiting for the day when they will feel the moist embrace of the ground and be given the signal to start doing the work they have prepared all their lives for. 

Basket of disappointed dreams.  The people turn their backs on these small packages of life.  They have their own problems to worry about.