The peach may idle softly on its branch
the orchard smell of apples
or an April wind in May go white
or you may wind ripe plums
like watches
to find an easy purple hour
high up in a golden measure
or walk the brown organic beauty
of a garden going green
among the plump red lamps
of summer.
You might peel the sweet corn searching
husking down the silky tresses
for a butter flavour
pleasing to the men who bang the salt.
And if the berries
ripen in a rush
and if the bottled fruit
soaks the sugar through with colour
or the alum shrink the dill
or the hard pears fall
in yellow bruises on the grass
and if your dress
come heavy with the harvest
to the house
and if the deep of winter
rows the pantry
with a woman's work
and the jam is sweeter
where fruits are shining on the cellar shelf
like the light inside a dream
that only dreamers see
why men seem old potatoes then
who blink blind eyes
and crawl towards the stairs.
From STELLA'S JOURNEY (Black Moss Press, 1999)
