Brave fruit ripens on my window
sill. It casts long shadows, long held away.
Someone said if you can remember screen
doors slamming in your memory
you can recall an entire childhood
encapsulated profoundly in the sound.
We didn't have a screen door. Sunshine
magnifies the fuzz impaled in waxy yellow
skin releasing strong odors of childhood which
perk like chopped corn or manure will if buried
and covered long enough. This quince inoculates
the pain and composts it sweetly into black gold.
