there are never enough cherries, and as they tumble from the market bag, a rain of ruby into the cobalt-colored bowl, suddenly he remembers
the cherry de-pit-i-nator and gets to work, shooting pits like BBs
until the counter is splattered with sweet red juice
and his chin is streaked red and his fingers even his arms and forehead are spattered
crimson everything a sweet red mess of fruit pits juice
It’s just- spring. It’s just-cherries.
No recipes. No fuss. Just simple, sweet, raw cherries
one after the other spring without end.
[It’s just-] joy.