I judged them very carefully, as thoughI’d been given the charge to determinewhich are good or bad, and they were all good,even the slightly overripe ones with bruiseshad a bitter ferment that only brightenedthe scent. And the too young ones, firmand slightly sour, not yet softened by the sun.And the ripe ones, which felt like biting intomy own flesh, slightly carnivorous.
They had been elegant in the tree, tiny coquettesblushing more and more until I picked them,then they were minimalist and matte-coloredin wooden bowls, so barely furred one couldn’thelp but clothe them, enclose them with your hand,caress each one thoroughly before taking a bite,exploring the handsome freckles leftfrom some minor blight.
Now I stand under the tree andpluck them one after the other.Each one tastes different, like a mind havingerratic thoughts. Going into the trancehalfway between eating and thinking,the thought of an apricot, the apricot of a thought,whose goodness occurs over time, so thatsome had been better earlier, others soonwould become correct, I mean ripe.