They’re Santa Rosas, crimson, touched by blue, with slightly mottled skin and amber flesh, transparently proposing by their hue the splendor of an August morning, fresh but ruddy, ripening toward fall.—"So sweet, so cold," the poet said; but this one’s tart, its sunny glow perfected in deceit, as emulation of a cunning heart. I eat it anyway, until the pit alone remains, with scattered drops of juice, such sour trophies proving nature's wit: appearances and real in fragile truce.
Reprinted by permission of Louisiana State University Press from Range of Light by Catherine Brosman. Copyright © 2007 by Catherine Brosman.
Catherine Savage Brosman
Date Published: 2007-01-01
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/plums