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Plum Worship
By Barbara Saxton
I lurk in my yard, snapping photos of plums
(or pluots, for those into fancy fruit names) framing
still digital lives that may help me recall how these plump
purplish beauties bent down the green branches, before birds,
squirrels and God knows what else come to hurry
the harvest. Soon enough, this same tree will shrink back
to a wintry black spine; in my camera's eye, it can burgeon
forever with life and free food that tastes better
for growing on one's own piece of land.
A plum falls, and I grab it, reveling at its round weight
in my palm, content for a moment to imagine
its sweet juiciness on my tongue. After all, my son
planted this tree, and each year's precious harvest
will nourish a shrine deep in this mother's belly,
once so ripe, nearly bursting, with a being I had yet
to meet and adore.