A poem I write today and post
Is juicy
Like this spring’s two tart-sweet
Home-grown, homemade cherry pies.

Never allowed to cool,
To set up
Because who can wait three hours
To eat homemade cherry pie?

Some elegance of form
is lost.
Piles of fruit and tender crust and juice
Instead of definite slices.

The tink of fork on china,
The beat of meter and verse
Not precise, not set.
Still delicious.