Red and Green

The ripe cherries glow a ruby red,

The leaves a gorgeous green

                               In the midday sun.

Where is that bluish bough?

The bare bough?

The one any moment, you said,                              

Shall break

Under the whipping of the wind;                            

Under the hammering rainfall;

Under the cold weight of the snow

                        on its bare shoulders.

That dry bough that, you said,

Ever the crow does not deign to perch on?

Rocking cradles of concealed little stones,

Amidst shiny green drapes,

The cherries hang

  from tall twigs.

But what of that bough?

The lone bough?

In the late spring midday sun

The cherries

Glow red ...