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The Plum Tree

The mothers spread a plum stained blanket
under the tree,
and lay the babies down,
patting their backs.
They listen for the sch,
dedh, t-te sounds 
of plums dropping through leaves 
and hitting the ground around them.
Then they stand 
and gather up the ones-
Soft, some slightly split, bursting- 
The perfect ones and eat them,
plum juice staining their mouths
and fingers.
They laugh
and spit the pits away,
like the boys do.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2022




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Date: 7/3/2022 9:21:00 PM
Wonderful imagery of fecundity in your delightful poem, Douglas. The final lines are zingers. You superbly unite mothers + free wheeling boys in their plum-commonality. Be well. Brian
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Douglas Brown
Date: 7/4/2022 10:23:00 AM
Thanks so much Brian! Doug
Date: 6/20/2022 9:45:00 AM
What a fun poem!
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Book: Reflection on the Important Things