Poetry / Spiritual / Uncategorized

Plum Picking

Deep within a coven of trees

you can find purple passion inside

those wild plums

the sweet meats of isolation and chaos

Far away from busy town streets

screeching with cars

bustling with hustle

and the clanking of day noise

You celebrate a commune with nature

braving brambles

clawing at legs and hands

purple sweetness beams

like the forbidden fruit it is

mockingbirds skitter

into a crown of tall ash trees

A nest of squirrels

chatter from lofty branches

at a distance

a crafty coyote

interested in the mad race of rabbits

and not so much

in the harvesting of fruit

Your quest for that sugared sweetness

a touch of tartness

the sticky feel of fingers

to satiate cravings

but then…

just beyond the plum patch

a deserted cemetery

looms upon the horizon

the nearness of graves

the distance to grace



21 thoughts on “Plum Picking

  1. What a beautiful poem for Boxing Day. Professor Plum, in the garden with fruit picking parafernalia.
    Having only just been introduced to Robert Frost (what have I been doing all my life) I’m sure he’d appreciate the message of enjoying nature before it’s too late. The squirrels get it, from their lofty vantage point. Lovely piece LT, thanks.

    • Thank you, Phil. Boxing Day, outstanding πŸ™‚ I love Robert Frost, he is one of the American poets I most admire, although I must admit, it would be the English/UK poets that I could read forever. It’s impossible to pick a favorite, but Yeats would be close.

      • I stumbled across Christy’s blog and a piece she’d written about Frost. She’d also done a piece on ‘Out out’ which I interpreted as a metaphor for the Great War which took me, via Chisty’s recommendation, to The Road Not Taken and then to… Your friend Yeats. Like Frost a stranger to me before this week but a beauty (not terrible) has been born. πŸ™‚

  2. Love it, made me think of my grandma’s plum tree, on her property out in the country. We ate them by the dozen while we were supposed to be picking… forgive us, they were delicious, so sweet and so warm. πŸ™‚

    • I will forgive you, ha ha. I always liked them chilled in the frig. My grandmother didn’t have a tree, but she would go and pick wild plums. I did not inherit her love of baking and all that jam and jelly stuff.

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