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.