We used to pick cherries over the hill

where we paid to climb wooden ladders

into the bright haven above our heads, the fruit

dangling earthward. Dark, twinned bells

ringing in some good fortune just beyond

our sight. I have lived on earth long enough

to know good luck arrives only on its way

to someone else, for it must leave you to the miracle

of your own misfortune, lest you grow weary

of harvest, of cherries falling from the crown of sky

in mid-summer, of hours of idle. Let there be

a stone of suffering. Let the fruit taste of sweetness

and dust. Let grief your heart split so precisely

you must hold, somehow, a memory of cherries-

tart talismans of pleasure-in the rucksack

of your soul. Taut skin, sharp blessing.

Luminous, ordinary and acute