Ripe
A plastic bag of cherries I'd forgotten
has molded in the fridge from my neglect,
and the sight brings me to their taste again
and the day I found them at the market.
A flatbed truck filled with stemmed garnet hearts
with so many double and triple stemmed
you'd think that Cezanne himself had taken part.
They're covered now as with an ashen hand.
How I would like to think some fate fashioned
this grey mold spreading like a breech of faith.
I’m almost moved to feel it must be planned
for blight to thrive in a held, frigid breath.
But such glowing, such sweetness, ends as soon
be it synchronized or just random doom.
