Sunday, February 12, 2017



A trickle of sweat
defies the rapidly moving paper fan
imprinted with the Savior's face.

My red tongue
swipes salt from my upper lip
almost revealing my secret.

His gentle eyes
seemingly acknowledge
my transgression

but I cannot resist temptation.

I pop another sinfully sour red explosion
into my mouth
careful not to swallow the pit.

The perfumed shade makes me think
for a moment I'm in Heaven
but the stickiness of the imperfect ones

upon the ground
causes me to stop fanning
and ask forgiveness.  He understands.

I hope Grandmother will too.

by Margaret Bednar, February 12, 2017

One of my earliest memories is of my grandmother's cherry trees and our family picking cherries in the summer.  My mom canned and I'm sure my love for cherry pie began with that tree.

This poem is reworked for a poetry group I belong to "Behind the Stacks" (they used to meet in a library) and the theme for February is "Food for Thought".


Jim said...

My grandmothers were very understanding, unless I chopped their cherry tree down. Which I wouldn't dare to do.
We had a cherry tree between the back porch and the wash house. It was given to me, actually to pick the cherries as a chore that I didn't recognize as such. I listened to my tube type portable Sears radio as I picked.

Martin Kloess said...

Eating cherries taken to knew heights. For me, it's raspberries.