A Conversation with Cherries On Why They Are Red

The sour cherries have ripened
and fallen under the weight of their own richness from their long-suffering boughs.
Perfection is heavy.
And now they lie there,
scattered like little tears of blood
in the mud-rich grass


my tree, why would you weep
in drops of blood? I tread my way carefully
between a hundred red bubbles mushrooming,
each a firm-swollen boil
on the rubicund face of the earth
The cherries wink at me like wet eyes
A perverse urge makes me want to step elegantly
on each, and pop their self-complacent,
shining selves to pulp
but I feel for the tree,
and desist




On my neck a cold shower
of tears. She weeps quietly in gratitude,
and still on the tip of each dark-green bough
new bubbles of blood keep forming
thick and sleek and shining
dark as uncut rubies in the rain