cherry dream.
Cherries drum
one by one
into the bucket.
Some sing, plop rock,
some a nearly silent squish.
What I remember
is strong shoulders.
A Panama hat, plume of pipe smoke,
and gravel grumble
in a soft smile.
Every summer he returns.
First bite of sour memory.
Gone for so long,
but somehow still holding
me aloft.
I love how memory arrives here not through explanation, but through sound, scent, and small details. By the final lines, the cherries are no longer just cherries—they’ve become a quiet way of carrying someone who still lifts us long after they’re gone. Beautifully distilled.
Mmm, cherries!! Love 'em. And this is a lovely poem.