Thinking about what you mean to me and lit on apricot jam.
If I must find some point of comparison.
As one does in poetry.
Apricot jam works better than you being my huckleberry,
Even though you are the right man for the job.
Or the apple of my eye
Which is more how an adult feels about a child. For you are no child.
An apple from you could tempt me into much sin.
But you don’t require a metaphor to do that.
You cannot be mon petite chou, far too cute for a man like you
Who is a lot of things, good things, cute not being among them
Italians call each other fragolina, but strawberries are too common.
Even dipped in chocolate, fragonlina cioccolato, it doesn’t quite hit the mark.
No, it’s apricots. Only apricots. Soft, velvety skin. A warm orange blushed glow.
In Andalusia, women put leaves and flowers from the apricot tree under their skirts,
To become overpowering.
The Spanish believe that passion and carnal desire can be awakened by apricots.
So how does this little stone fruit, this symbol of feminine sexuality, tie to you?
I see I have wandered afield from my main intent. So enraptured in my metaphor.
When apricots boil down to this.
So simple and pure.
Apricots make the jam that is above all others for me.
Irene Christina Ens 2021