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The Carriage House |
And whatever I do
will become forever what I have done. - Wistawa Szymborska
Doubling up slatted
steps to knotty pine,
frame to floor, under
one persistent plum
in a county full once
of grand estates
and private orchards.
Nectar, oozing and
tart, covered us all
at once. Orbs shot from
above the second story,
plummeted faster
than could be collected.
Soured grasses receded
below their juices.
For those few harvest
weeks plums occupied
every thought. Manic to
the task of plucking, washing,
pectin adding, filling, pouring,
sealing jars, aroma rich with
simmering plums coming
into luscious preserve.
I recall the wide open
canopy of that tree, great
birthing parachute, emerald
shimmer like chenille, shawl
draped over the strong square
shoulders of the carriage
house I once called home.
copyright 2006
Peggy
Dobreer |
