One perfect cherry remains
Past the warmth of summer
Waiting for a tribute to its
No one sang a praise song
None cared to trumpet its deep, rich color
Or the droplets of nectar waiting to stain
The serviette, the linen of a Victorian Age.
It and fruits in array
Tumbled in and out of ‘well-stocked markets.
Until one day, they were gone
Unknown to humans,
It was the very last the world would know
Left uneaten as a memory of life
Before the flood
Before the fire
Before the bomb.
One perfect cherry, seed intact
Shines with dew.