By Catherine Savage Brosman
They’re Santa Rosas, crimson, touched by blue,
with slightly mottled skin and amber flesh,
transparently proposing by their hue
the splendor of an August morning, fresh
but ruddy, ripening toward fall.—"So sweet,
so cold," the poet said; but this one’s tart,
its sunny glow perfected in deceit,
as emulation of a cunning heart.
I eat it anyway, until the pit
alone remains, with scattered drops of juice,
such sour trophies proving nature's wit:
appearances and real in fragile truce.
They’re Santa Rosas, crimson, touched by blue,
with slightly mottled skin and amber flesh,
transparently proposing by their hue
the splendor of an August morning, fresh
but ruddy, ripening toward fall.—"So sweet,
so cold," the poet said; but this one’s tart,
its sunny glow perfected in deceit,
as emulation of a cunning heart.
I eat it anyway, until the pit
alone remains, with scattered drops of juice,
such sour trophies proving nature's wit:
appearances and real in fragile truce.
