‘I would to grow a cherry tree,’ said Jean.
‘From this stone.’ It was small and red inside
Her pap’ry palm. ‘There’s a little in between
Your teeth,’ cherry peel ribbon stuck in chalk.
‘I could put it back there, with the apple.’
That was where the ev’ning light came in soft,
Through the rosy green trees high aloft,
Verdant flora through which to quiet dapple.
An earthy pit at night, a spritz of dew,
There Jean went. ‘Grow and root, my tender tree.
Polished orbs of liquid rouge, sing to me.’
Jean knelt. ‘My honeyed bud – I stay your debut.’
It would be so grand, she thinks unseen,
To see something of mine, in red and green.