“delicious plums in the icebox”

Plums in the icebox, asleep in their cold skin—  
Midnight whispers call me, hush-quiet within.  
Purple, dusky armored, a frost-laden stone,  
Waiting in the silence when I am alone.

They glimmer like secrets in the thin silver light,  
Nestled in napkins, clasped cool and tight—  
I open the door and the chill fans my cheek,  
The perfume of promise and summer I seek.

Bite soft through the velvet, a shiver and burst—  
Sweetness so sudden, it quenches my thirst.  
Juice on my tongue and the tartness that lingers,  
Stained in the moonlight, coolness on fingers.

O fruit in the icebox, patient and sly,  
I think of the morning, the "sorry," the sigh—  
But now, in this darkness, the taste is my own,  
Delicious transgression, in stillness alone.

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