You know, it is a different thing
To pick and choose
Especially since it’s fall
Or autumn, as some well bred
Tend to say—well, often
The bugs get in there
You might see a hole at the end
So you can’t have them
Just let the bent ones fall
To the ground—unceremoniously.
But the whole ones not
Molded or dimpled from age
Go in the plastic pot for keeping
And I think of her, in these last days,
They say, although who really knows,
But she looks it for all the world
To be giving it up, thinner
Unable to make movements quickly
A lag time in thought and deed
As if, what’s the rush?
The sun pricks off the red
Of the juice within
Each tightly held bunch
I grasp gently and pull
From the thorny bush
Although these fall-kind
Or autumnal variety, clusters
The fruit at the end.
Easier picking in theory
But this is children’s work
If you think about it.
Send the children out to pick
Knowing they’ll eat half
Before they return, but better
Than an adult out there
Gathering amidst the prickly storm.
But young, in this case, would fail
Not have the particular eye
Needed for gathering what is required
Of this important quest for
The absolutely best fruit
For my dying friend.
I know I’ll miss her
Already have for these months
Of her infirmity, sickness never
Leaves the same—or as it was.
Then I wonder if some are too
Pink yet, or others a bit
Too deep now, and a tentative
Hand grasps then leaves,
Pulls and lets drop, all
Those not quite right
For her tender mouth
And fine memories, tastes
Of past glory as she
Passes one more day.
September 25, 2014
clouds around 