The Cherry Tree

Do you have any cherries?

She shook her head, almost appalled that the bowl had run empty.

The only ones left are in the tree.

And without one more word between us I disappeared

from fine society, bored of grown-up talk at tables,

and climbed the cherry tree in my pink silk blouse

that I shouldn’t wear when climbing trees.

Shadow-dappled, I reached for cherries

that sang the last verse of their season,

dark burgundy, oozing red blood that stained

my lips and hands, my feet when cherries

tumbled and fell.

        Joined by finches, I feasted,

sucking sun-sweetened cherries and leaning

against cool branches to watch skies slide above

me, and there was no one to tell me not to climb trees

in silk blouses.