Plum Harvest

The sky sprawls green
at my feet this morning, its stars
turned smoldering red dwarves.
New stars
thud and settle, stillborn,
sinking in the green sky.

I drop the still unfallen ones
in a plastic shopping bag,
its handle stretching
at the earth's fitful tug.

The summer stored much sun here
and the tree is springy from
autumn's pruning. A lot of good -
the crop is vast, but puny.
The branches sag like grape vines broken
loose from their arbor.
Dwarfed fruit bunch in long arteries under
capillaried skin.

I clutch them in two's and three's,
shaking some down impatiently
as water climbs my sleeve.
The few good ones
are already soft
and wasted on the branch. These
I drop angrily, where they pop
like blisters beneath my boot,
red pus running.

The rest crouch miserably in my sack, half-formed,
soon to rot slowly
between the marmalade and the balsamic vinegar.

Sept. '99

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