The path’s wet with rain and trodden blossom.
Crushed petals in hot hot pink looked funny
In the downpour. A box of plums, deep red
Were left on a stranger’s garden wall. Odd,
I thought were they forgotten fruit or just
A simple spring gift for the passer-by.
They had not gone bad yet. Either was fine
For a Good Friday walk in the grey rain.
I pondered to take them. But I feared it,
The trembling lip of a child, whose favourite
Plum tart, fresh pastry lined with marzipan
And segments like jewels in their almond bed
Could not be. I could not steal the joy
Those purple fruits would surely soon deploy.
[ Lois describes herself as a “confused english student,” though one quickly finds a polished, charming poet in her work. She has an elegant style that compliments her keen insight and whimsical sensibilities. It is a pleasure to present her work, and you can find more of it at Lois E. Linkins.]