WILD PLUMS

It’s erotic—my hands sifting through 

plum flesh for pits—the purple skins,

the golden juice like a fine wine—

this bowl overflowing. 

*

But wait, there is more to that story.

There is the moment when we stood

in the September dusk in the storm light—

four women laughing in awe at the miraculous

choreography of this evening—harvest moon,

late summer wind blowing through 

branches so laden with plums they fall 

off by the dozens into our open palms.

*

Gathering to harvest the way peoples

have always gathered when the year 

spins around to equinox again. Each 

to make our own version of plum jam—

the alchemy of this particular summer, 

where grief and beauty have been lovers.

*

This season where we have all lost someone

where we have sung river songs 

by the river and laid our bare bodies 

on warm rocks in the sun, finding the places 

where our mythologies weave, 

where we dream not only for ourselves

but for each other. 

*

Yes, this is the taste of a summer

that will be remembered in mid-winter—

carried in the essence of these plums—

this memory of bright stars and purple asters 

and the bears rumbling around 

gorging before they sleep. This moment 

of equal day and night, just before the sun

sun slants south to the honey of fall 

and then the crystalline thin light of winter. 

*

But wait, I am here, standing in the kitchen

my hands plunged into a bowl of pulp,

plums boiling on the stove with cardamom 

and cinnamon –thinking of 

all the ways we make love with life, 

all the exquisite ways we are offered 

to commune with the fruits of the world—

so freely given. So freely given.