Poetry

In their blue-black coats,
a sun-splash for an epaulet
they're tasty this year
extra glossy and fat
God alone knows why--
some years are just like that.

Coming home from Costco,
one by one, we toss them back
(they're irresistible)
spitting the pits
(they fall in the cracks)
we mean to be trees
but doubt ever will:
longer mornings needed
we agree for that;
deeper soil to root-search in
than any here in the 'hood;
higher sky,
a particular slant of rain
and the kinship of their kind.

Anyhow, we can't resist.
And, coming home
fish them out faster,
by the two's and three's, now
from their plastic boats;
faster and faster
pop off the stems
and toss them back like years,
buffing them first on our shirts.