The days roll like endless asphalt on the Ohio Turnpike, and moments are lost like mile markers along the way.
But then, in the market, standing over the bin of red plums,
I become twelve years younger in a gazebo at the Thurber House,
fruit laid out between us, and your hand holds the first plum
of the season. I take, bite, the skin taut, then the juice drips,
filling the river lifeline on my palm.
Tonight I walked like a monk with two other friends:
heel on the ground, arch unfolding to the ground,
small toe, then next toe, until finally the whole foot found solid earth.
Why do I seek so many sacred ways to transcend,
when my hands simply want to hold the harvest fruit of summer,
my teeth want to pierce the shiny skin, and I want to gnaw
until I hold the center seeded pit in the pocket of my cheek?
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