Poetry this time. It's the weekend, so this one will be brief.
In the child's hands, a berry.
that deep red color they get just before they turn from sweetperfect to
Cradled in that carefulprecious way a child holds a treasure.
Cradled the way a child holds something
The image in my head
Cradled in that carefulprecious way
the mind holds a treasure
With pavement, broken raspberry, and no child.
The fruit broken under its own weight on slick asphalt
Deep red bleeds out
Stains my fingers as I scoop some up
Not even noticing that it is delicious
And so cold.