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apricots making perfume inside a crate
arrived from the house on the Smartsville Road
“apricots! already?”
people were apt to swoon,
“ah-h, apricots from a tree!”
— as opposed to … from where? —
but I knew what they meant:
molten gold in the kettle
cooked down for the gods’
breakfast toast, summers past
all summers to come
stolen
saved
caught on a spoon
© by Grace Hughes Chappell.
Used with the author’s permission.
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Grace Hughes Chappell lives in San Francisco. She and her husband also tend a garden and apple orchard in Mendocino County, California. Grace has had work published in the Sunday SF Chronicle, the Anderson Valley Advertiser, theRichmond ReView, Short Fiction by Women, and various other publications.
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ElizabethP:
I can almost smell them...Sigh... wonderful poem. Thanks!
Posted 07/16/2016 10:46 PM
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kharer:
I like the "from where?" line. very funny and true.
Where's your orchard? I have a little garden in Gualala.
Posted 07/14/2016 04:01 PM
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Lori Levy:
Can taste the apricots.
Posted 07/14/2016 01:42 PM
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AllegraSilberstein:
Yum...love that fruit fresh from the tree.
Posted 07/14/2016 01:39 PM
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paradea:
Beautiful! Awakens the senses, and the heart!!
Posted 07/14/2016 10:21 AM
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Janet Leahy:
This poem is delicious, love the perfume in the crate.
Picked up peaches from a truck that brings them from Georgia yesterday, they also make perfume in a crate.
Thanks Grace.
Posted 07/14/2016 09:34 AM
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cork:
I remember white sheets on the ground to catch the falling fruit.
Posted 07/14/2016 07:46 AM
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blueskies:
Just as a recent poem celebrating a dandelion 'shall never be the same', so it is for the apricots! Insightful & yummy. Thanks, Grace.
Posted 07/14/2016 07:30 AM
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annie_jenkin:
Wonderful Katrina, I can savour the deliciousness from here in the UK!
Posted 07/14/2016 05:37 AM
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Newf:
Yes Katrina, the surely do. I can just taste them.
Posted 07/14/2016 04:43 AM
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Katrina:
They do sound heavenly.
Posted 07/14/2016 03:00 AM
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