Plum Tart

It was not hard.
I piled purple plums
clinging, wet, to each other,
glimmering with a ripe glimmer
and shiny with sugar.
I poured and pressed them,
into pastry rolled
thick and buttery.
I pulled the limpid dough
up
and over the rich red fruit,
then put it in the oven.
The hour fled by,
warmed by the gradual growing
of the deep scent,
the quivering aroma
of summer,
of childhood,
of goodness wrapped in piecrust,
a medieval sort of luxury,
a messy, gooey,
glimmering
goodness.

- Emma Pearl - 

The beginning of my summer endeavor - A Poem A Day