It still had its leaves on it,
the pomegranate she handed me.
And holding that smooth red sphere
in my palm, I felt not only
the jeweled weight of each bright seed,
but also the weight of the many nights
the fruit had hung on the tree,
felt how the nights had slowed the growth
so the fruit could develop more sugar.
Not all things get to ripen.
Oh, this small gift of sweetness.
How it opened in me such red tenderness—
the memory of a boy learning how
to open and eat a pomegranate,
scarlet juice trickling down his chin.
And now. I hold it in awe,
this beautiful thick-skinned globe,
hold it less like a fruit,
hold it more like a love
I was just beginning to know.
Posts Tagged ‘fruit’
The Gift
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, food, fruit, grief, love, mother, pomegranate, ripening, son on October 21, 2021| 6 Comments »
Burst
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged fruit, hiking, plum, ripening on August 3, 2021| 4 Comments »
So full of sugar,
the ripe plums
on the counter
begin to split
their skin—a sign
they’re beginning
the journey
to wine.
Sometimes,
like today,
hiking through
spruce forests and
wildflower meadows,
past beaver ponds
and through
clearings of chanterelles,
I, too, feel as if
I could split—
so filled with
the sweetness
of life I almost
explode,
tipsier by the moment
broken open
by joy.
On Days When the World Seems Stingy
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged augusta kantra, fruit, generosity, satsuma on February 22, 2021| 7 Comments »
—for Augusta Kantra
I remember that day when Augusta and I
stood beneath the satsuma tree at her front gate
and pulled dozens of bright orange spheres
from the branches, filled a basket to brimming,
and still the tree was weighted with fruit.
I remember how easily the leather skin peeled away,
the way I always wish an orange might peel.
I remember the juicy sweet flesh—sweeter
than most citrus. I remember it was seedless,
a surprise generosity. And the colder it is,
the sweeter the satsuma will grow.
But most of all, I remember Augusta—
her love-ripened smile, her sunny chatter,
her contagious gratitude
for the tree, the fruit, the scent of soft rain, the day.
I remember how she thrilled to share with me
something I’d never known before,
how she handed me my first satsuma—
her palm upright, extended,
and in it a small proof of abundant goodness
just waiting to be opened.
Out of Reach
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged craving, fruit, longing, poem, poetry, wanting on January 13, 2020| 2 Comments »
The crystal vase on the top shelf,
the one that holds two dozen roses.
The Hallelujah Chorus’s high A.
The perfect word that flutters away.
The name of the man walking toward you.
The card that slips between the seats.
The itch on your back. The dream upon waking.
World peace. Inner peace. Any peace.
In the kitchen, a persimmon
with its stubborn glossy skin. A knife
with its shrewd steel edge. Oh this art
of choosing to want what’s in hand—
sweet honeyed flesh, yielding and soft.
Oh this craving for blood oranges, tart and red.
On Eating My First Muscadine Grapes
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged food, fruit, kissing, muscadine grapes, poem, poetry on October 3, 2019| 4 Comments »
I mean, are you kidding me?!
They’re just grapes, sure, but
more like what every kiss wants to be—
surprising and unpredictable.
Intensely sweet, spicy, too,
and tough, unwilling to be summed up,
making me pucker at the same time
I long for more, something
I happened to find in the store,
but the taste, the round essence, is wild,
unable to be tamed.
It’s enough to make a woman wonder
how she’s never tried this before,
as if the world’s been holding out on her—
and if this new thrill is possible, well, then
what else might be out there for a woman to find?
After a Frost
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged apricot blossom, apricots, fruit, love, orchard, poem, poetry on May 2, 2019| Leave a Comment »
I remember walking the orchard rows
and picking ten flowers from ten apricot trees,
then opening them with my thumbnail,
one by one, peeling back the white petals
to reveal the telling heart. In some,
the pistil and style were still green,
in others, shriveled and black.
We could estimate percentages—
how much of the crop had survived.
It takes only a half an hour for a killing frost
to render barren dozens of acres of trees.
And what of the human heart? If it
had blossoms, could we count them, too,
and say after a cold spell, what chance
love had of staying on the tree? Is it
simply a matter of degree? And duration,
too, of course. Or is there something more?
Sometimes the loss of fruit is a blessing—
the tree can only support so much.
But is it the same with love? Is there
a kindness in loss? Or is love not like
the cherry tree, not like the apricot?
Does it want only to thrive, to blossom,
to offer as much as it can?
And let’s say there is no fruit.
Trees still need water, need nourishment.
So much investment for what looks
like a season when nothing will ripen.
Tell yourself, one season is not
the life of an orchard. Tell yourself
sometimes it’s worse than it seems.
Sometimes there’s life high up in the tree.
Sometimes it’s a killing freeze.
In Susan’s Backyard
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged boys, fruit, plum, poem, poetry on September 20, 2013| 1 Comment »
Spryly
highly
yesly
mumly
Aiden
climbs the
laden
plum tree
smiley
wily
sparkling
eye-ly
Aiden
tosses
ripe plums
highly
through
the air
my hands
are there
sweet boy
who lives
so me
oh my-ly.
Sticky
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged eve, fruit, kauai, naming, poem, poetry, temptation on April 10, 2013| 1 Comment »
No one ever said
how high the apple was,
and just how much
of a stretch it might have been
for Eve to pick it.
I think about this today
as I reach for the small, round
purple fruits I cannot name.
There is pleasure and
frustration in not knowing
what to call something
so pleasuresome, so good.
The tree is tall. I do not
need a snake to invite me
to reach. And when I
devour the sweet purple flesh
and the soft cream around
the large black seeds,
I do not need anyone
to bid me take another bite.
I do not share.
From not far away, a rooster
crows. From not far away,
the sound of wind disturbing
dried banana leaves. Those
trees are not so difficult to reach.
Scent of the sea, is it? I do not
pause long to consider the possibilities,
purple juice streaming down
the long, not quite long enough
reach of my arm.