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Ripe Plums
by Kristina WoodhillI picked the ripe wild plums yesterday,
Their old twiggy trees a short walk
From our neat square white house
With its neat, dark-blue front door;
Old fruit trees growing unattended
In the middle of our wide, wide dirt lane,
Heavy branches draping to dabble
With little gray pebbles at their roots,
Crooked trunks relaxed in the autumn afternoon,
Small sparrows flitting and rustling about
For odd seeds and white bits of flying woolley aphids;
I lifted limbs to gently release each plump fruit,
My cheeks scratched by dead twigs, my head
Pushing up into a mess of discarded directions,
Broken notions, grown for a few seasons only,
Long brittle fingers still waiting, hanging on
For next season's white fragrant blossoms,
A fresh full-skirted gown, a suitor's arm
10/21/2010
Posted on 10/21/2010
Copyright © 2024 Kristina Woodhill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 10/21/10 at 05:50 PM Sometimes things grown wild grow better and sweeter as they are left alone. And like people only feel the need for direction as they grow older. Very "sweet" write m'lady, and one which eaten slowly will provide many rewards. |
| Posted by Therese Elaine on 10/21/10 at 07:15 PM This reminds me of seeing wild plums and berries when I lived in Alaska -someone had planted a plum tree on their property and then it had just run rampant over the years, spreading and tangling up with everything it could, and the colour of those fruits against the brown and green wood-tones, hanging heavy like these jewels amongst the clutter of leaves and branches, they were so beautiful...you just took me back to a time so much less complicated and so much more beautiful...thank you Kristina. |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 10/21/10 at 07:31 PM The extended metaphor in this is as crisp and clear as the language and imagery. Wonderful. |
| Posted by Charlie Morgan on 10/21/10 at 09:26 PM ...k-gal, i veered-off to the other ditch and picked some black berries, but ran right back when the twigs scratched your face. what a wholesome and yearning write kristina. reached for your hand, you know dirt road, away from home just begs for kissing! |
| Posted by Laura Doom on 10/23/10 at 06:28 PM Animism and the inanimate incarnate make an articulate coupling in your gravid hands :> |
| Posted by Don Matley on 10/24/10 at 11:43 PM there is a controlled beauty and pace to your words....you start with 'picking ripe wild and seemingly harmless plums', yet care and respect and caution are needed lest "my cheeks scratched by deadly twigs" as if to say 'as if the tree were saying "I may be old but I still can function and take that". At least that. I especially like " heavy branches draping to dabble, with little gray pebbles at their roots".
I picked up one of those pebbles.
Very very enjoyable. |
| Posted by June Labyzon on 10/29/10 at 11:01 AM loved this, such a contrast to my morning walk to work along streets giving birth to garbage, metal containers bringing transporting people, and odors of stale beer...which I encounter each morning...
Nice read....thanks |
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