the tiniest children come for the plums
begging for what they can’t reach
plumb brave they ring the bell again and again
I’ve not met these eyes ablaze,
these sweet dreams, these juicy hearts.
asking me to the front lawn
they make themselves understood
pointing to dark hidden gems amongst the leaves
how did I not see these before?
when did fruit blindness set in?
4 for 4 leaves them satisfied
I suggest washing them back home
but it’s too late
and what’s a little dust anyway?
surely a simple and necessary inoculation
probably adult onset fruit blindness
My work is loving the world. Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird-- equal seekers of sweetness. Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums. Here the clam deep in the speckled sand. Are my boots old? Is my coat torn? Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me keep my mind on what matters, which is my work, which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished. The phoebe, the delphinium. The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture. Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here, which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart and these body-clothes, a mouth with which to give shouts of joy to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam, telling them all, over and over, how it is that we live forever.
From the book Thirst