Reread this poem this morningβ¦so many thoughtsβ¦nectarines have always been a symbol of summer for meβ¦my father, who was born in 1906, used to say that when he was my age they didnβt have nectarinesβ¦the smell of them ripening in the blue glass bowl on the kitchen tableβ¦the fruit fliesβ¦always the wasps nest outside our kitchen window over the back garage door. Wow.
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Reread this poem this morningβ¦so many thoughtsβ¦nectarines have always been a symbol of summer for meβ¦my father, who was born in 1906, used to say that when he was my age they didnβt have nectarinesβ¦the smell of them ripening in the blue glass bowl on the kitchen tableβ¦the fruit fliesβ¦always the wasps nest outside our kitchen window over the back garage door. Wow.
this was a lovely poem π©·
the lines "this catalonian grove is a cemetery/where burial pits become wombs" will forever haunt me... such beauty, such haunting imagery