A yellow plum tree is ripe with resplendent globes, so full I lean forward eating them, so they drip to the ground. If I try them too soon, my reward is a sour taste, like boring store-bought fruit.

 

But who are these plums? I've learned they are softies whose feelings are hurt by complaints. I heap them with praise as abundant as their short, sweet harvest.

 

They like to dress up; wear bow ties and nerdy black shoes at the Fairy Harvest Feast, mocked mercilessly by smart-ass Leprechauns. You'd hardly know their fashionable Italian roots.

 

Their high aspirations explode in puddles of discontent since they fall hard; leave a pathetic mess only of interest to worker bees.

 

Those junkmen of the garden are mean drunks and protect their stash ruthlessly with stings if I pick up the fallen treasure chests they cherish. Antisocial, they never come to The Feast. Content to be homebodies in their hives at night.

 

Nearby Macintosh apples are a lot tougher. It takes much to hurt their feelings. They have simple aspirations, working class fruit you might say. They hurl themselves earthward without harm, like an Apollo space capsule landing on soft soil. 

 

But even tough guys can be sensitive. Mice nibble their hard red shell and expose them as softies inside. They dress awkwardly, not wanting to show a lack of culture, wear sports coats to The Feast. But bursting buttons of opulence give them away.

 

Blackberries are wild and surround the garden. These hooligans are Hell's Angels wannabees. They tear my flesh if I get too personal. Tough gang. Wear dark leather jackets and ride Harley's to The Feast. Would never let on that they're sweet if you give them time.

 

They'd take over if I let them. So I diligently prune. They laugh at my desperation as they spread like a bad rumor. But we call a truce and I see their good side when they mellow out and ripen.

 

Raspberries, their tame cousins, are sunburned and shy. Mind their manners and mostly stay put. Wear a nice pair of slacks; always shine their shoes before the bash. Sweet and quiet, they just ask for water when it's dry. But they sometimes surprise me. When I think they're spent, out of energy, they deliver more ripe berries.

 

I hope my pals don't mind that I wear my funkiest clothes when I prune. I hate to think what they must write about me.