Charm’d Fruit by Belle DiMonté

i.  Winter Brewings

Granny, weather-meddling crone

wise as figs and pinch’d as onions

brews treats as winter snow swirls alone

past her dugout window.

She chops and peels and boils

summer’s return;

goodies bless’d with Goblin eye.

Tumbling from forest glades

while Summer Moon gazes high

Goblin children dandelion-fill’d

dance through honey fields;

Goblin-song caressing:

Sky-Charm, Earth-Chant,

make the fruits grow strong and fat.

Let their globes grow and grow

so into mouths they may go. 

Granny likes the Goblin-chants;

they make the fruit strong and fat

like a little Goblin child.

But Granny doesn’t boil those.

III. Apricot Blossoms Seal’d Fate  

Granny, budding sorceress apple-cheek’d

lured a Goblin minstrel

from forest’s grasp

to sing her trees to sleep on long summer nights.

Ensorcell’d by her witchy jams

he lull’d the trees

for a century and a day.

Apricot trees calm’d by lullabies sway’d,

showering

soft round tears

of flowersilk

in rivulets round his shoulders.

Sky-Charm, Earth-Chant,

make the fruits grow strong and fat.

Let their globes grow and grow

so into mouths they may go.

 

IV. Two Drops of Vanilla Veneer the Tincture

Two drops, Granny says. Vanilla and apricots.

That’s what I charm’d him with.

And I, Granddaughter, stir the bubbling pot

perch’d atop arthritic stove.

We are Fruitcharmers; Jammakers:

Mother to child this Craft goes,

sorceresses through blood and flesh and fruit.

No books; only old wither’d fingers

pluck berries, peel pears,

prepare Nature’s ovaries

for their sweet-forever lairs.

Sang my fruits to sleep he did,

sang each day; each year.

The trees gave.

I cook’d.

Feasting, feasting. I can hear him now—

 

Sky-Charm, Earth-Chant,

make the fruits grow strong and fat.

Let their globes grow and grow

so into mouths they may go.

 

V. Only Dying Allows the Fruit to Spread Its Seed

Steam curls from treasur’d cauldron

moistening Granny’s stars in midnight sky.

Each day he sang.

Each day he sang until he died.

Die he did,

and dance we did: a macabre feast

in his honor.

We drown’d ourselves in bitter wine

of peach pits and bloody lemon rinds.

Bloody with his life, his song,

his sighs.

I killed him, that fool.

Let him lie.

Granddaughter—

Granny’s knotty hands twist and clench.

Suddenly the treasure is poison

and Granny is angry Cerridwen,

deep wench stirring darkness.

He was going to die:

only my tinctures kept him alive.

My poor trees would’ve wither’d like scorch’d vanilla beans.

Now the meal of his silver bones feed

my trees with the Goblin song they need.

Sing it too, Granddaughter: 

Sky-Charm, Earth-Chant,

make the fruits grow strong and fat.

Let their globes grow and grow

so into mouths they may go.

 

The clouds may forever protect the shy

but handsome-burning sun.

Death is the final garden, Granddaughter.

And mine was his only one.

VI. Goblin Fruit

Let it simmer now, love; dance, dance!

Granny sings the song he sang her:

Garden-charms and Goblin-tongue.

Apron’d, juic’d and stain’d

we join hands and dance

beneath Moon’s loving gaze.

We are the Fruitcharmers; Jammakers.

Dance with us as we cast this year’s

spell-bless’d harvest.

Let the trees grow strong and fat

like little Goblin-children.

They tumble from their glades;

dark velvet eyes

that seek merrymaking for hungry mouths.

Goblin goblets full,

we feast; we stuff; we gorge;

’til the Goblins are fat on fruit and

drunk enough to sing the songs that bless our lands:

Sky-Charm, Earth-Chant,

make the fruits grow strong and fat.

Let their globes grow and grow

so into mouths they may go.

We dance until stars fall from the sky.

We are the Fruitcharmers; Jammakers.

Eternity is our sweet treat.

~

Belle DiMonté , age 16, is a widely-published fantasy writer with almost 40 publications to her name, including two poetry collections. She is close to finishing writing her third fantasy novel, for which she is seeking a home.

Advertisements