Inspired by challenges at Poet's Place Cafe, a forum designed to hone your writing skills. |
The Santa Rosa Plum Tree in My Yard I took a hard fall from that tree a few years back. First time I broke a bone in my life. Landed on my left wrist and knew instantly it was shattered. The rough ground impaled my palm and electricity traveled up my arm making me dizzy and nauseated. But that was nine years ago. When I look at it now, I see grey-green leaves on heavy limbs hanging low, burdened by dusty purple clusters of plums, hundreds and hundreds of them. Two branches lie on the dusty ground, having broken free because of the weight. The tree is old with dry moss climbing its trunk and main arteries but it still produces its plenty. Silence surrounds the area, blocked from street noises by space, fence and potato vines. Besides we don't get much traffic on our backcountry road. It is a sound I welcome every day with the occasional interruption by the song of a bird or the buzz of a bee. A tart-sweet aroma tingles in my nostrils from the rotting fallen fruit on the ground while I try not to step on and squish them. Other scents of mowed grass, apples, and the sea air layer the airy concoction. Yum, I pick a sun-warmed orb, rub the dust off on my shirt and bite into the juicy explosion of soft sweet meat beneath the tart bitterness of the skin. Smooth on the tongue, this is one fruit you have to sort of suck the meat off the pit then spit the pit free. Perhaps the best part of having this prolific producer is the connection with recipients of its bounty as I offer bags of the delicious plums to friends and neighbors. ~~Judi Van Gorder Notes: ▼ |