The Paddock Review

Plain Plenty: Blossom, Bounty, Betty

 

After the pinks and whites, the blossoms,

which should not be skipped over,

for, instead of a truncated overture,

they deserve a poem of their own.

A proper poem.

For a different time…

 

So let me begin again:

After the pinks and whites,

these delicate marvels.

Such round. Such red.

Or green or gold.

So many colors.

 

So many forms. So many types.

Always recognizable. Always connected.

Familial, you know.

Such spare sweetness.

Serene.

So ready in autumn. Sometimes earlier.

 

The birds and the bees

and the bugs

… and the worms … agree.

They want in on the bounty.

So too the roan mare outside.

Don’t forget to cut it into pieces for her.

 

And, too, the neighbor’s donkey.

He deserves one, as well.

A treat.

A break from hay and oats.

Work horse?

Work donkey!

 

Dazzle on tree.

Brightness between branches.

Perfect in a wooden bowl on Lavinia’s kitchen table.

Or on a white earthenware plate next to tea. No scones needed.

Snap. Snap. Crunch. Crunch.

The juices seep into the skin’s pores. And the soul’s.

 

Or into the crisps and crumbles and pies and tarts and Betty’s.

Are you partial to the flour

and (aforementioned) oats of crisp

or the breadcrumbs atop Betty?

Is that cinnamon and butter and cloves I smell in the oven?

Maybe ginger?

 

But I digress

for those are not the stars of this poem.

Those are the enhancements.

Nor is its butter that is spread over wheat toast,

the very butter you purchased one October

(instead of a t-shirt) at a mountainside visitors center.

 

So adaptable.

May you continue to flourish in so many climates.

May there yet be winter for your contentment.

Flee you from the crisis.

Here’s a map of an unpolluted world.

May your blossoms breathe in the time they need and are needed.

 

While others herald the charms of brighter colors,

gather in the bogs for the tangy ones,

fly to warmer zones for neon results,

we sing of humble.

Fruit not bitter.

Fruit not strange.

 

Blessed be the orchardist.

Blessed be the pickers,

be they arrived from far or near.

Sustain them in harmony

and safety, far from the coyotes’ net.

Provide them a thriving wage.

 

Today, the sun is mild.

Today, the air is redolent.

Today we will go harvesting in the back yard.

Today, we will go further afield.

Into the fields.

Said the guide:

 

Walk the country road until you reach the sunflowers.

Turn left.

If you focus, you will find it.

Follow the footsteps of this faint perfume.

Open the creaking gate.

I know it needs to be oiled.

 

Walk some fifty paces.

And there you are.

And there they are.

Without fanfare, without trumpets,

the miracle of manna in the desert.

The icebox thrums in anticipation.

…..

This poem is from the book Night Breaks in the Garret: Poems and Peregrinations by Yermiyahu Ahron Taub (Finishing Line Press), and can be found at https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/night-breaks-in-the-garret-poems-and-peregrinations-by-yermiyahu-ahron-taub/