Two travelers rest upon a shaded seat
ingesting cherries purchased where they grow,
that grew too perfect to delay to eat:
cascades of flavor so intense they know
no other sense. They pause to gaze at one:
a globe of purple ballasted within,
its roundness gleaming in the midday sun,
its ripeness offering to split its skin.

He wonders: is there any way to catch
a cherry just like this, in words or art?
select an indigo and have it match
the sparkle in her palm? with verse impart
its pregnant strength? No words can capture quite
the pop that cherry makes beneath his bite.