The Day By Geoffrey Brock

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.

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