Years ago, my husband and I took a vacation to the Columbia River Gorge to escape the Austin heat. Cherries were everywhere. We drank cherry stout at the brew pub and ate cherry pie at a diner. Walking in the town of Hood River, we came across a table along the sidewalk with a big bowl and a sign that said, “Free Cherries. Please help yourself!” It felt like a bit of magic.
This is a very different summer. No long sleeves, no wide bodies of water, no walking around in this heat. (Few people stopping by to see the poetry box either – it’s just too hot for pausing on the pavement!) But there are still cherries. And a poem that celebrates them.
“I looked down at the dark red fruit, each cherry
good in its own, particular way
the way breasts are good or birds or stars.”
