Raspberries

A bowl of vanilla
ice cream
as white as the apple
of your eye.		 Topped with
nine
lost in the wild
red
raspberries.		 Game-Time Weather:
Fresh yellow of daisies, not the father orange of July, nor the old man red-orange of August, or still older bleached-orange of Fall,

not the infant one of March, but the teeming one of late Spring, teasing practical joker.
One day your scout
has your attention
then disappears
for a week, sends a postcard
from the Road.		 “Wish you were here! The sun is a marshmallow on a stick in a fire on the beach, the wave mister going
‘Miss you!’”		 The simple
raspberry
crumbling nodes.
Vestigial poem:
100 drupelets.
And here’s the pitch –
Tart fruit!		 Swung on
and there’s a drive,
deep left center,
Davis at a gallop,
dives,
one hands it!		 Warm,
right off
the green cane.

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