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Pawpaws
Susan Miller
Along the Pony Pasture path
with early eastern sun squinting up the river through the trees
catching the white bottomed geese
grazing the James, tails to the sky,
I heard the sharp knocking of a woodpecker,
droning cicadas,
and some sweet unrecognized trilling.
Even more sweet, there was a tropical smell.
This park by the river is a remnant of old growth Virginia hardwoods, left,
by some lucky negligence, along the James,
filled with sycamore and tulip poplars.
There are trees I do not recognize, having grown up elsewhere.
My father, born in the South,
told me about Pawpaws;
how he and his brothers used to seek them out in season.
Once, I thought I saw them,
but found instead small native persimmons.
As I walked the pony path, I saw
deep green avocado-shaped fruits upon the ground
and knew they were the source of the tropical smell.
I looked up and even larger fruits had not yet fallen.
Too high to reach,
I took the soft ones from the path,
and carried them home
to see what my father had known.
I love the way this poem is deeply rooted in place, engaging the senses: the sunlight through the trees, the sounds of cicadas and birdsong, the smell of the fruit. Through these details, the poet ties “place” to history, to memory, and to family. What could be more Richmond than that? Thank you, Susan!
Look for more poems from our community in newsletters to come. Keep writing out there!
--JL
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