The Plum Tree



The plum tree in our front yard

was radically and inexpertly trimmed.

In the summer, clear gobs of gelled sap

Issued from its countless wounds

like stationary tears.

In winter it was naked and black

and bent at cruel angles

like an early prosthetic device.


But in the spring, it was a young woman.

Every brittle twig wore the whitest blossom sleeve

and its evanescent perfume

sweet and familiar as honey

strange and unsettling as the voices of the Sirens

whispered promises of everlasting bliss

to me.


Copyright 2014

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2 Responses to The Plum Tree

  1. Hmm.. I like this as a metaphor. Might have to ask the author for permission to use this as a forward to James and Katherine.

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