Roses will scent the air. And all that we have forgotten, the mockingbird will repeat into the small green spaces of our still unripened hearts. RED, red the cherries turn, burning in the dark green sky, a thousand suns, almost as red as the true sun that's going down right now behind the mock orange and weigela, so hot you'd think it would sizzle, hiss as its light's put out for the night. At the heart of each cherry there's a pit, a stone. And we are built on an architecture of bone, our sweet flesh ripening so fast, so fast.
Robins steal the cherries one by one.
Such fierce burning. This world, red in tooth and claw, with so much loss sometimes you wish your heart could turn to stone. But still, the flesh is sweet. Now the sky darkens, and the cherries cannot be seen. It is one of those sweet summer nights, after a day of bake oven heat, soft air playing with the hair on your neck, the bare skin of your arms and legs.