Chilly autumn night—
 
the sweet, ripe plums of summer
 
spill into my dreams.

 
 
 

How many stories
 
that no one will ever find
 
masquerade as plums?

 
 
 

Sorting through the mail,
 
I come across your letter,
 
fragrant as ripe plums.

 
 
 

Near the bananas
 
a woman pinches some plums
 
to see if they’re ripe.

 
 
 

Plums ripe for picking
 
appear only in my dreams—
 
deepening winter.

 
 
 

Zen sanctuary—
 
the abbot fingers his beads,
 
dreaming of ripe plums.

 
 
 

Three, perhaps four, plums
 
await the harvester’s hand—
 
first weeks of autumn.

 
 
 

So many stories
 
ripen along with the plums—
 
bite into this one!

Madness

 
 
 

midsummer madness—
 
the thud of neglected plums
 
falling to the earth

Bushels

 
 
 

bushels of plums—
 
the joy of abundance
 
from her orchard