It hangs on its
stem like a plum
at the edge of a
darkening thicket.

It's swelling and
blushing and ripe
and I reach out a
hand to pick it

but flesh moves
slow through time
and evening
comes on fast

and just when I
think my fingers
might seize that
sweetness at last

the gentlest of
breezes rises
and the plum lets
go of   the stem.

And now it's my
fingers ripening
and evening that's
reaching for them.