Ambrosia

My dreams, of late, have become simple and ambiguous.
I dream of being warm and happy.
I dream of paying the bills a little easier.
These days, I need simple things to dream about,
to be able to turn them over in my mind and know them.
I love plums, for example. And even though right now
they are coming from Mexico or farther away, even though
they have drug a comet tail of semi trucks and diesel exhaust to get here,
this week there are plums at the store,
plums like soft warm lips of lovers
plums like little beating hearts
plums like luscious ambrosia handed down in bushel baskets from the clouds.
Bright, huddled pyramids of plums with soft, sweet bruises from gentle handling
swaying, rocking over roads in wooden crates
full of the juice of foreign spring.