Prophet of autumn

In late August I ate a plum. It was

dripping with each bite, so I stuck

my head over the window and let

the juice sink back into the ground —

its first home. It was a good plum.

A prophet of autumn air — quite firm

and sour on the outside, softer and sweeter closer to the stone. It was

so good, I washed another one, and

that one was equally delicious, satisfying

and comforting my hesitant anticipation

of change with a reminder that each season has its own tastes and blessings.

Meanwhile, barefoot and with barely anything on, I stood in that window as the summer breeze wrapped its warm and heavy arms around me. I think I let out

a sound suggesting deep pleasure and considered throwing the pit onto the green, grassy yard. But I didn’t.