Cherries

On the stairs outside a few errant cherries fall,
lipstick perfect, the color of a lover’s lips,
not gaudy, but rich with desire and promise,
tender, soft, so perfect

you cannot resist a taste.

About this poem

This began life as six stanzas, and like all my poems, several layers. Then I set to editing, and ended up with five lines, and only two layers.

But somehow, that was enough.

The picture was taken in Pawlet. Locals likely recognize it.

Tom