It hangs on its
stem like a plum
at the edge of a
darkening thicket.
It’ s swelling and
blushing and ripe
and I reach out a
hand to pick it
but flesh moves
slow through time
and evening
comes on fast
and just when I
think my fingers
might seize that
sweetness at last
the gentlest of
breezes rises
and the plum lets
go of the stem.
And now it’ s my
fingers ripening
and evening that’ s
reaching for them.