Corps de l’article

For Ted

Backyard canes droop

away from the fence, laden

with sweet clustered rubies.

Plucked, all those little mouths

mirroring our hunger that is thirst

for the juice that means home.

Deep crimson bounty heaped,

smothered under white clouds.

Or in a glowing realm of jam.

In a blue bowl, my entreaty: sun-warmed

nubbins crushed into thick rivulets

melting ice-cream mounds.

Tiny velvet cushions

against teeth and tongue.

Our mouths become royal.

Last handfuls of summer's tang hang low.

What will remain when

branches are bare?