Plump

One of the trees I planted three or four years ago reminds me that when I was eight or nine, I plopped from the top of a small plum tree into a mash carpet of rotting fruit.  For now, I'm focusing on the purples I can reach while standing.

"What are you going to do with these guys?" asks Virginia.

"Pose a still life, for starters," I say.

"I think this one may have gotten too close to a buckeye," says she.

Pie, salsa, jam.  I've already violated one rule:  "Never put firm plums in the refrigerator."