I sit, contemplating the cherries on my Lisbon table.
Cerejas, plump, darker than cherry red on the white plate.
I lift one to my eager lips,
that first bite filled with hope,
so often dashed when the richness of colour deceives.
It is a triumph ... firm and luscious.
choose another ... scrutinizing, comparing,
and deliberately take the speckled one underneath.
(I’m sure it won’t be as good, but I know, as with life,
one cannot always expect perfection.)
The imperfect cherry is a surprise ...
not quite as juicy, but with a lemony tang
that somehow compliments the richness of the first.
there are the two on the right, tinged with a hint of brown
... too soft, over-ripe.
regret that I did not eat these yesterday.)
An unexpected tear trickles down
my left cheek
resting there as I examine the darkest cherry, apart from the rest,
Taking it gently between my fingers,
I close my eyes so I am not misled
by its beauty
and give myself over to pleasure ...
Richelle da Costa, Lisbon 2012