Poem for Sunday, June 14, 2009

Grandma's Plums

Shinnying up her tree

I asked, "Granny, will

you pick me a plum?"

I was five years old

(plums: such succulent fruit

               smooth amethyst spheres

               dangling like temptation)

  

I asked, "Granny, will

you--" and before I could

finish she had a plum

in her calloused palm

her wrinkled forehead and

emphysema screamed fatigue but

I was a little boy

I was always so hungry

the easiest to reach

housed a worm or were bruised

the hardest to reach

were blessed by God

(fifteen years later: no more plums

                                   sprout from

                                   the branches)

I asked, "Granny, what

happened to the plums?"

and she reminded me

that fruit spoils