We have a pair of plum trees in the orchard, a Santa Rosa and a Shiro. They have to be planted in pairs for cross pollination purposes.
In the spring, they dress themselves in white lace, enticing us from afar.
Later on, they cover themselves with luscious fruit.
When that happens, we wrap them in green netting, and suddenly they become the coy houris of the place, hiding their fruit and shape in the modest draping of bird net.
The imagery I am finding is no accident. I was out there yesterday, picking the ripe plums. The whole crop does not ripen at the same time. Here are the plums that were ready yesterday.
I envision wonderful jam, tasty smoothies in the winter, maybe a tart or two.
I was out there in the orchard, choosing the plums that were ripe. I had to open up the bird netting and dive under the tree’s skirts, so to speak. I was bathed in humid sun, breathing the sweet scent of ripening plums. In order to choose the ones that were ready, I was feeling each fruit to find if it had softened. You could not judge by the look of the fruit, you had to fondle each plum gently, finding the proper firm softness. The ones that were ready would drop gently into my hand. When you bite into them, the sweet juice explodes in your mouth.
Go see Nursemyra today, she channels Dryad in a most convincing fashion.