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.
