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.