But for a few Moments, It Was Forever
The late afternoon lolls on its side
and takes a nap. The orchard grass
grows emerald green and high in the rows
of nectarines. My son and I
reach up to the red-skinned globes
with open hands and hold their weight
to see if they are ripe. Sometimes
the wait of seven days is unbearable,
as it has been this week
with the ongoing longing
for the white tang of the flesh
and the honeyed aftermath of nectar.
In our wishing, we’ve bitten into the hard
fruits, knowing they were not ready,
puckering at the sharp green smack,
a ditty of taste instead of a masterpiece.
Wait. Wait. Wait. And now
the day. We know it by pressing our fingers
into the ruby skin and feeling the give
of the fruit. Careful, knowing
the thing we are holding is living
and easily bruised, we pull them
from the burdened limbs and raise the nectarines
to our lips with no ritual but joy.
Oh, and the cascade of golden juice, and oh,
how the teeth sink deep in the sweet sweet
holy yes of it all and we laugh and eat
and drip and slurp and keep on laughing
and laughing, our eyes wide
with the implausible delight
that comes when a hunger
is truly satisfied. The afternoon
yawns, sits up, and starts again the time.
what joy is in this poem!
“a ditty of taste instead of masterpiece” — love that line. also love, “…with no ritual but joy.” “…the sweet sweet holy yes of it all…”
curious about the choice to not capitalize “few” in the title.
“…The afternoon/yawns, sits up, and starts again the time.” another brilliant line—you’ve been paying attention, well.
I’m drinking, slurping, implausibly laughing in delight from this poem.
It’s a curious view, that you and your son are the dream of the afternoon, for I like the way the afternoon “lolls” and then by the end “sits up” to regain its composure. And all that goes on in its dreaming head, such luscious stuff: the weight and the wait, nice, how the poem ripens with the wait. You two are consuming time.