A Poem by Meri Culp

Pomona, goddess of garden, of orchards,
lead me to your sacred grove,
where plum shadows curve, rounding to dusk, purpled in the deep gold of over ripe pears,
the stretch of your arms covering the tallest of trees, the smallest of cherry;

find in me, Pomona, a remembrance of place,
the pulse of stone fruit, the planting of my feet,
strong and sure, the soft dirt welcome of fallen figs,
of  Eve apple comeuppance, the simple seduction
of orange, your gown, your hair, nectarine smoothed;

leave me here, Pomona, in my mythology—
your platters of fruit, my sustenance, your gardens,
my sacrament, my so be it amening your dusk orchard call,
your sway of ritual bending branches—
watching for nightfall, fruit fall, mindful of this still life.