The small plums
on arching limbs
clutch the branch
from which they grow
plump and purple.
Far too many, I admonish the tree,
you astonish with your superfluity.
But then, what do I know?
I only hover nearby,
circling the throne of your high summer glory.
Too crowded with the weight of survival,
some plums let go their hold
Some grow fatter every day,
more purple, sweet and round.
The greedy gardener,
thinking they are hers,
worries they will rot
for want of human hands
to pluck them from their bough
until, standing at the early morning window
she finally sees:
three birds pecking at plums
as a squirrel whisks along laden limbs.
Fruit falls and
dewy skin breaks open
for any fly or sparrow,
worm or beetle,
mouse or perhaps
for no one
but the fat-bellied glory of August.
2 thoughts on “The Small Plums”
Janet, you have such a gift for words, but not only that…the thoughts you express so vividly in your poetry reveal your most gentle inner self. I feel I understand you more completely adding your poetry to the whole. I’m glad to be on your list.
shelley thompson 88 east fork rd camden, me 04843 _______________________
c: 207.691.6848 e: firstname.lastname@example.org
sent from my iPad
Thank you, dear Janet. I love how you put your love of gardening, your keen observations, and your talent to verse. It will sustain us through the coming long winter months. Love, Kathleen