| 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. |
The Coming of the Toads 