chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

Tag Archives: plums


2016-03-04 plum

Oh, bees,
let the miasma of winter
slip from your wings
so long crimped in sleep.
The birds have been rehearsing
each morning in the shower —
fly into the random air,
listen to their chorus,
they understand the wind.

September, wistfully

Jonagold applesAfter the rain — yesterday’s really BIG rain — the morning earth is nearly black, the greens ultra green. In some places, September is the hottest month. But here, in our corner of Cascadia, the word Fall has found its way into many conversations. There’s a chill in the morning and evening, and leaves on the ground. I consider that it might be time to put away the fans, time for a heavier blanket on the bed, for sweaters and socks, for moving a pile of firewood nearer the back door. The garden beckons me with its autumn work, apples heavy on the tree, a last clutch of plums ready to pluck.

spring at the Supreme Court…

plum brides

a pair of brides
they stand together
arm in arm
wide skirts
spun outward
above slender ankles
spiky coronets
holding feathery veils

. . . . .
© j.i. kleinberg

measuring spring…

29 March 2012 - plum blossomsYou must get tired of hearing about the plums, she said. There was no reply. I could, instead, tell you about how green knots split into tight fists of velvet-wallpaper red on the first rhododendron. Or describe the sturdy rust-washed stalks of the peonies, now half a foot tall. Over here, the daffodils, bent and discouraged by the wind, have nonetheless begun to lift their cheery faces. And the daphne, a sensitive and fussy plant, I was told, is thriving, glossy and covered with modest pale green flowers that should smell like the front door of heaven, but have absolutely no scent at all.

But it’s the plums that greet me when I lift the blinds each morning; they are the yardstick by which I measure the retreat of winter, the advance of spring. The picture that recalls the juicy purple fruit of summer. Will the blossoms, now fading and shriveling, hold on through another night and day of gusts and rain and charcoal clouds, bees dozing wherever it is that bees doze? Or will I have to buzz around the blooms myself to nudge and urge and pollinate?

White petals freckle the ground between green spikes of iris. I stoop beneath low-slung branches and whisper to the plums, hang on, hang on.


Italian prune plumsFall blows in. Morning cloud-tops smoothed and combed, a surprise of pink far to the south, the belly of dawn. One near-black wombat of cloud scurries past, bright crust of moon suspended high overhead.

The yard is freckled with leaves — maple, plum, elm, cottonwood — wakened from their summer indolence, surprised into letting go.

The wind is warm and moist, without autumn’s northern chill. I step out in the tropical half-light to gather the last of the summer’s plums.


plums of AugustIn the confusion of the seasons, the bees slept as the plum tree bloomed.
The tulips and daphne and irises and allium flowered beneath her wide green skirt, fruit hidden green and hard among her leaves.
Then, it seemed, one August day, plums: gold flesh, sweet and drooling down the chin, purple flesh a single bite of summer.