you've filled my mind with plums
heavy, purpled
and how they may appear
once halved and pitted...
will their inner fruit be yellow
orange
or some bluish shade of red?
& dressed in unctuous goop
& nestled in the tender pastry folds
those hits of butter, spice & sugars...
oooh
There was poetry in me today.
after chick rescue,
poor babies, poor Rosie,
all sorted
then hand in hand to the garden,
across new mown grass,
between the Four o Clocks,
to the ruins of two months without a lawn mower,
the removal of pavers placed to step across rows,
buried in Johnson grass and Golden Rod,
and somewhere on the path to now,
the poetry was buried too.