Poetry this time. It's the weekend, so this one will be brief.
-
In the child's hands, a berry.
ripered raspberry,
that deep red color they get just before they turn from sweetperfect to
sweetrotten.
Cradled in that carefulprecious way a child holds a treasure.
Cradled the way a child holds something
Special
Precious
Fragile.
Then after.
The image in my head
Cradled in that carefulprecious way
the mind holds a treasure
Still life
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
So sweet
And so cold.
No comments:
Post a Comment