I sit, contemplating the cherries before me on my Lisbon table
Cerejas, plump, darker than cherry red, on the white plate.
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.
I 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
which somehow compliments the richness of the first.
Then there are the two on the right, tinged with a hint of brown
... too soft, over-ripe.
(I regret that I did not eat these yesterday.)
unexpected tear trickles down my left cheek
resting there as I examine the darkest cherry, apart from the rest,
pristine but alone.
Taking it gently between my fingers,
close my eyes so I am not misled by its beauty
and give myself over to pleasure ...
Richelle da Costa, Lisbon 2012