Mulberries
A cricket chirps, a sparrow sings
Grasshoppers glide on chattering wings.
A summer’s day in august thus begins.
Each crack upon the sidewalk
Breaks another mother’s back.
Each needle is forever lost
In some remote haystack.
A child close examines dirt
And sees the wonder of the stars.
Collects the neighbors spiders
In his mother’s pickle jars.
Such life these precious moments
Meant to be the essence of existence
Lived by you and me.
A tree really meant to be climbed
Born of purpose, just as we
Who, in the shallowness of youth
Are meant to climb, heading into sky
Leaning on a rising trunk
To gaze through leaves
Contemplate the spots of snot
Remaining on our sleeves
Searching for treasures
Seeking the perfect mulberry
To complete a perfect day.
Purple or red, green and growing,
Tiny spearlike tips of black;
Phonograph needles set to track
Sweet music from the grooves
Of any hungry tongue
Windowpane reflections
On each juicy surface shining
Growing ever larger
As it closes to your mouth.
Could this one berry fill us now?
How many can we eat?
Each one more beautiful
Than all the rest.
Each one the best.
Finger ridges purple stained
Like contours on a map.
Fingerprints of criminals
Stealing berries
From the neighbors tree.
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