Verbena

The tree bears fruit.
Sun-warmed rind ripens at the break of day,
Awaiting the nomial call from the voice in the sky.
Orange, it says.

Waiting and waiting,
The orange grows tired and bored of its tree,
Until the snake comes along,
Bites away its stem,
And carries it to a beautiful young lady.

Curious, she happily peels away and eats,
Then shares it with a man,

Then skies turn grey,
And faces are somber,
All due to a misunderstanding.

Guilt-ridden rinds cover the earth.