Tuesday, August 27
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Cherries
Fireweed loves the yard
and the fire that conjured it
into the light.
And the scarlet elderberry
loves the old junkpile
            it leans against.
The morning glory smothers everything
in an embrace: the fence,
the wood workbench,
the rusted steel.
Here's a summer day that's so slow
even the light
            moves like honey;
Daisies jump fences
            and then just mill around.
Here's a cherry tree that's so rich
when it offers its heart to the birds,
every cherry
            is a year of cherries.
 - Barbara LaMorticella









  • ". . . as I have said often enough, I write for myself in multiplicate,
    a not unfamiliar phenomenon on the horizon of shimmering deserts."
    - Vladimir Nabokov