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.

Copyright Credit: Geoffrey Brock, “The Day” from Poetry (May 2013). Copyright © 2013 by Geoffrey Brock. Used with the permission of the author.