Dream of a Loquat
Somewhere in the upper curl of the Italian coast,
I am leaning over a rampart
Trying to pick a darker shade of orange loquat.
It’s a long way down to the sea.
I reach for a simple truth:
Some stone fruit is worth a fall.
This one, sweet and tart at the same time.
This one, out on a high branch with a view of the harbor
And the anchovy boats that have just returned.
I tell myself I am so close,
It should be mine to pick.
I am old by now, but with my arms outstretched
And my fingers grasping,
It seems all I can do is hold this moment forever,
The same fruit just there in its brightness.
J.P. White is an author of essays, articles, fiction, reviews, interviews, and poetry in over a hundred-fifty publications. Read more.