After Poem By Jeanne Marie Beaumont
In memoriam William Matthews
All long labors, whether for hunger, for duty, for
Pleasure, or none of the above, one day wrap up.
Put down the itinerant’s beaten pouch, pluck no fruit further;
Linger over the melancholy taste of last on the tongue.
Even a switchblade wit can’t sever another stem.
Plenty is a relative measure—if less than paradise,
It’s more than enough. The prolific orchard will of course
Continue, other soles trod ladders into the heady
Kingdom of weighted boughs. Insatiable, you might even say
Incorrigible (as though mumbling in winter sleep), the way they can’t
Not keep coming back, grasping, tugging, lifting down those
Globes that swell and blush to be handled so.