By Catherine Savage Brosman
They’re Santa Rosas, crimson, touched por blue,
with slightly mottled skin and amber flesh,
transparently proposing por 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 azedar, azedo trophies proving nature's wit:
appearances and real in fragile truce.
They’re Santa Rosas, crimson, touched por blue,
with slightly mottled skin and amber flesh,
transparently proposing por 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 azedar, azedo trophies proving nature's wit:
appearances and real in fragile truce.
