Friday, June 22, 2007

yes, plums sneak their way into many of my poems

THE YEAR OF BITTER PLUMS

Smoke on the mountain

you don’t come back to me

these nights of breaking


Ours was a china passion

doomed to edges

willow leaf or crow’s feather


We did not imagine this

blue distance

landscape of blackened roses


in the year of bitter plums

They fell too early

We pretended they were sweet.

2 Comments:

At June 25, 2007 4:22 AM , Blogger Jan said...

That last line..." we pretended..they were sweet" says so much. Loved it.

 
At July 05, 2007 7:50 PM , Blogger blog queen said...

I love that line "Ours was a China passion." How fragile and breakable that sounds.

 

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