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.
Source: Poetry (May 2013)
Poet Bio
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