Fruit

FRUIT

The wide hills are leaning
With their arms full of fruit;
The valleys lift up their trees —
Scarlet cherries,
Purple plums,
Little green pears.
Touched with russet
There are bushes
Where the berries hang
Rich and ripe,
Bursting with the sweetness
Of their juice .  .  .  .  .
It is a good time of year —
This space between the golden harvest
Of the autumn
And the first of summer —
I shall gather cherries and plums
And stain my fingers
With berries.
And my tongue shall know
The wild, sweet taste
Of many fruits  .   .   .
I shall go under a wide blue sky,
Under a golden sun,
Tasting here and there,
An epicure,
At an endless banquet.

— Abigail Cresson.

The Bee (Danville, Virginia) Aug 7, 1922

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