Sandy May
Traveller in the arts
Posts: 8
(6/22/02 3:41 am)
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ONE HUNDRED PERSIMMONS
Today I pushed
my husband
out the door.
He’d pointed
at my breakfast
plate and scowled,
"buttered toast,
swiss cheese and eggs
is not a low fat diet."
Please go.
I kissed and pushed.
"Where?"
Anywhere.
Fall mornings alone
I'll sometimes write
a poem, or divide
pink primroses,
or snip show-off
crysanthemums,
abloom
in deep maroon.
Today, I’ll haul in
one hundred ripe
persimmons, fallen
to the ground
last night along
with their heavy branches.
First I shooed
two nosey cats,
then diddled and doodled
the first morning hour,
savoring sweet silence--
no one else home, me
and baby spiders
hatching on the ceiling.
I listed fourteen
essential tasks
to complete
before noon.
Finishing one,
the hundred
persimmons,
I noticed out
the kitchen door,
eight bumpy scarlet
runners winding
up the cherry plum,
one teeny zucchini
under great powdery
leaves, a ripe
beefsteak tomato
drooping dangerously
on it's stem.
So I sacked
the other tasks,
set the kitchen
table for one, fresh
daisy patterned cloth,
pale blue-rimmed
china, white linen napkin,
and boiled steaming
vegetable soup for one,
and sipped
and slurped
'til noon.
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