Another cherry from the nearly empty summer box.
Is it as red as the wine-red sea?
Or as red as the cheeks of my beamish boy?
Is it the cherry my mother gave me?
"Don't swallow the seed!" she warned.
It is the cherry I have right now,
As bright and pretty as a cherry can be,
With its stem reaching over far for something desired
And upward for the thing unattained.