Try to recall what it’s like
after a day’s work in July
to bite into a ripe Mariposa,
dark clear through, almost
freestone and running with juice.

It’s not the taste at first,
but the surprise at finding
a sphere the color you’d have
chosen yourself –blood-rich.

Here it is, deepest summer
and this its marker come almost
without asking, and you laugh to be
here and not where you’d hoped.

And what if days are shrinking
and doubt’s coming on and the regret
of not caring better for your life,
letting small pleasures die
before they’re even born?

You had nothing to do with this one –
not friends, not even yourself
to thank for tending it –
but here it is, filled to the skin,
come into your palm without help.

It’s not just sweet, not
just to quench a thirst.
It’s a season. A short life.
A joy that needs nothing.

The rounded world is cradled
and felt for once,
and if a plum’s like this,
then what can be wasted?

Take it now, and eat –
this smallest other you found
and taste, dripping down 
your cheek and into your palm
all its runny happiness.