Color: Plum

I haven't forgotten the colors task. Here's a new installmant.

There is a poem by William Carlos Williams that often crops up on collections of "Best Poems." It's simple and provokes some sense of feeling in the reader. Like any good poem, the reader's response is unique, borne of their own experiences and memories. This is the poem:

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast.

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.
-- William Carlos Williams

So this poem is what I thought about when trying to type something for the color Plum. Have you ever looked really closely at a plum? The color is hard to capture. At first glance it is a maroony, purplish brown color. But it's got this neat finish that changes the color by the reflection of light off the skin. The secondary colors are a green and sometimes, on an unpolished plum, a blue. Plums change color through polishing as well. Unpolished, they have a fuzzy white overcoating that mutes those secondary colors. Very strange. I'd like to be able to paint a plum.

In addition to the color, another thing I like about plums is how well the flesh pulls away from the seed. Not like a (non clingfree) peach. Like an apricot. Not like a nectarine. Everything pulls away from the seed. Except a tiny bit of a fleshy beard that clings to the seed seam. A wick of sorts (wink, wink).

Just like the color of the skin, the flavor can change. Tangy patches and sweet patches. Brilliant! Sort of like wading through cool lake water and coming across warm patches on the bottom: chewing through a sour plum and hitting a sweet spot.

We had a plum tree at the home I grew up in. As I recall, it was an abundant provider, giving soft ripe fruit up the ying yang, but just for a short season. Later, when I lived in Enatai with Mark, Mrs Lew, our neighbor, would set a brown paper grocery bag full of plums on our door step in August. She had found out that I was fond of them and was dealing with her own abundance. My good fortune. Mark couldn't have cared less. Last time I drove down my old street, Mrs. Lew's plum tree was gone. As was her house. Replaced by a megahouse with a lawn too small to accommodate a lowly plum tree. Lots of houses that were on the street when I lived there have met a similar fate. My wasbund is still holding out in his '50s rambler, shadowed by these megahouses. I loved my old neighborhood but I would suspect the things I liked most about it: the Mrs. Lews with abundant plum offerings; Kelley across the street to share divided perennials with; Andrea and Craig around the corner to share a glass of wine with on a Friday evening; those kind neighbors that I used to enjoy are all gone now.

So here's my attempt at a poem for plums in the style of William Carlos Williams

This Is Just To Say

I have taken
the plums
that were in
the bag
on the doorstep

and which
you were probably
going
to throw away.

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so special.
So unappreciated.