Two trees of bumper cherries,
a backyard buzzed in bloom,
and it is you and me, my love,
only us, and noon.

When I call, "Be careful,
some duds in this last batch—
watch what you pick," you holler back,
"The tree is in my eyes—"

The tree is in your eyes.
I'm spattered with cherry gut.
The knife sticks to my palm and you
bring bowl after bowl after bowl?

If I dared ever resent
such gift when it was offered,
may all the spangled universe—
and you, my dear—forgive.


From Given These Magics (Finishing Line Press, 2010)
© by Sarah Busse.
Used with the author's permission.