1.28.2008

Plums


Independence, Privation, Treatment for Weak Hearts

He looked her blue in the eyes, searching,
and told her he loved her. She murmured
indistinctly and thought not of the flush
in his cheeks or his wheat-colored eyelashes,
but of ripe plums.

In the biting January wind, in the heartless
blinding sun off the harbor waters,
her mind retreated to the surrendering depth
just beyond the taut, tangy skin of the plum.

As his hot hand reached for hers
she longed for the shady release
of cool juice on her lips,
black fruit in her hand.

7 comments:

Cassandra Barney said...

How can I stay in bed after I read these two entries. Whoa. I painted figs today. I'll send you pictures. I love what you've written. You are always impressing me.
C

P said...

So do the images inspire the poetry, or vice versa?

For heaven's sake. Another meme. I just tagged you. Don't hate me.

Kate Horowitz said...

First I write the poem, which is usually inspired by something I read or saw once. Then I court Lady Image Search. Luckily, she totally digs me.

No hate for the meme, but as this is a poetry-only blog I'm going to have to put my 7 facties in verse, which should be a really good exercise.

P said...

Ohhh...even better. Seven factoids in haiju format.

P said...

Uh...that would be HAIKU.

Adam said...

woah. me likey

Anonymous said...

<3. Loogs


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