a tree rings another season
ice cores record years
clocks tell us our time
and an old man chooses a mango
he chooses one with the most sun on its skin
he places the mango onto the palm
of a woman’s hand
fingers curl around the colors of fruit
they make love in the passing of mangoes
one mango then another
there is no rush
their spotted hands seem painted with a skin-colored wash in hues of blues and pinks sunsets steal the softness to ease days into night
soon his breath her breath will pause once too long they will settle into the soil just two rich seeds a fruit tree will grow and a hand will reach for the mango with the most sun still on the skin
Mary Strong Jackson
January 1, 2011
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Beautiful! Sensual!
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I liked the repeat of the most sun mango in the first version?
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Yes, the repeat might be better. The first version first stanza seemed clunky to me. I’ve changed this poem so many times. I’m not sure what I should have left and what I’ve changed. Thanks for commenting.
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