The Meaning of Life, in 20 Stanzas

To admire the simple lines and serene elegance – in a word, the beauty –

of this unassuming, little, purple plum

to analyze it into its smallest constituents, its bound quanta of energy,

of organic molecule, atom, electron, proton, quark, meson, gluon, Higg’s boson,

string

to mark its modest place in the multifactorial hologram of spacetime

between the quantum vacuum and the arguably infinite multiverse

to notice how it is shaped

a little like a heart,

a little like a scrotum

before it wrinkles

to pop up from a blossom

on a black, slim bough

and hang there, thoughtless,

under the sun and the bees,

until an overworked field hand

plucks it down and puts it into his basket

before sending it off to market

to sit bored on a produce shelf at Whole Foods,

spritzed every few minutes by a mist to keep it

Looking Fresh,

for weeks at the height of summer,

its price going down half a dollar a pound

each week,

until a price-conscious shopper

snaps it up, in a ridiculous little bag,

from the throw-away bin,

for a truly insulting $.19 a pound

to decay with slow dignity in a fruit bowl,

where it was forgotten when the family

left for vacation

to set it on a table

and paint it

in the 10,000,000 ways,

from Shubun to Chardin to Picasso to Damien Hirst

to stick it on the nose of a clown

followed by an amorous butterfly

trailed by a delirious frog

and eyed by a suspicious acrobat

left behind by a bankrupt traveling circus

to exchange it for credit in the commodities market

against a future shipment of papayas,

kumquats, huckleberries and passion fruit

to combine it in a clever scientist’s laboratory

with an orange and an apricot

and come up with the ingenious

pluocot

to weigh it in a grocer’s scale,

take it home at Christmas

and cook it in a pudding

and serve it with brandy

in flames

to dry it until it becomes a prune

and distribute it to elderly folk who suffer from irregularity

to wait until the little plum

is perfectly ripe

(testing it every day

until it feels soft

and tender)

then,

giving it one last, admiring glance,

open your mouth

and eat it

                       

                        then take its pit,

drop it

into a hole

in the garden

and grow it

into a plum tree

where its delicate, pink flowers,

will always be the first blossoms in spring

and young girls and boys in Chinatown

will carry them through the New Year’s streets

to write a hymn praising the plum

as it sails across the heavens,

like a fat, purple moon,

rising to play its part

in a feast of the gods

then disappear,

like a magic act

in a hushed theater,

the lights streaking through the darkness

looking for it,

though it is never

to be found

again

visions of Plums

dancing in children’s dreams

in the night

to see it with the eye

of God.