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.