Plump Berries

By Jon Hillenbrand In Poetry


First I saw the cherry. Then I saw the long dark sweet ink trickling entangled down her creamy curves. Should I spoil her freshly fallen field of pale snow? Would I ever recover from sinfully sampling her unsophisticated sensuality? A hellfire might await me after such a kiss, or a preacher’s bliss. Such fires could flavor life forever. Melted in my controversy, embroiled in the fueled fury of indecision, unbroken in my desire, I take to the skies surely seeing soaring heavens…her lips a luscious laugh, her eyes a devastating trap. Her light soft on holy arches, jealous angels peer over liquid sparkling spectacles. Fingers pressed in a prayer softly slide past mine, electric in their intention. Nectar heard only by deities now whisper past plump berries picking up their sweetness toward my fields spreading pollen, impregnating my flowers with promises of Love everlasting. Tulips bloom, lilies explode toward her sunlight, roots bury deeper toward the unknown purchase that lies below. Sunrises warm my cool skin, beyond a kiss, an everlasting fountain of happiness and youth and spirit.

Yet, soft light changes to hard, gold turns back to lead. The broken hand twists the arc of the universe curving unstoppable, the ink spreads with viral efficiency between the fading stars. The warmth recoils from a front of icy liquid metal. Sharp edges prick at my worn clothing as I run barefoot through my dying fields of green, yellow and brown. Sinking down to muddy knees bloody from the morning dew still coating the stronger leaves hiding in the crackling grass. A silent hot blast of wrath and I look up to the sky at once full of darkness and full of blackness that blinds me in its emptiness. I fly apart with the dead leaves and the sandy wind scorching the rest of my life down to the withering roots.

Love is replaced with a deafening hum that all sailors shy away from toward deeper waters afraid to face the devastation and featureless broken landscape of an extinct land, smashed heart, the land nearly forgotten but added to the rest, clasped between the the hands of a girl that now prays in soft whispered gifts offered up absentmindedly toward the heavens and God above.

What do you think?