Thumbprint of the moon, blush of the summer sky rim
of sweetness hemmed in damask. Bruise-blue, ruby red,
autumn gold; the full spectrum of sugar. The thrum
of a tenor sax. You brood on the tree biding your time.
If we're lucky, we'll find you whole, oval, unstung
by wasps, ungnawed by squirrels. You will fill
a child's palm. Hot juice of an August night,
a gulp of dark wine. A taste that winter,
which we know is coming, cannot erase.
~Barbara Crooker

poems online



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