Manna

The plums are falling
and at first
we exclaim with surprise
we taste in disbelief
the pure, distilled sweetness
that only comes from freshly fallen fruit
at first we hoard them
at first we count them
we ration them out to only those we love
we break the new-born dusted skin with
a sacred reverence
The plums keep falling
we learn to expect them
each morning
these quiet presents
that never herald its coming
they spot them ground
in inconspicuous humility
self-deprecatingly camouflaged
we learn to count on them
these gifts from our tree
the sweetness
the abundance
and when they are all eaten
to believe that Providence
will return
again