Crimson Diaries

The cherries are speaking to me Here, unsuppressed by summer heat I know the redness as a sign of pain, Tart and sweet in its own sunburnt cheeks, Some grinning in the shade Auburn and split, some deeply glowing, Sighing with the wind Unaware of any other, but the other half, Through the sunsets and the rain. I see my reflection on its surface, An exaggeration of my outstretched hand, And then the cherries spoke no more, As crimson silence swept the land.