High as my arms will allow,
Stepping higher to grasp the tip of a bough.
Let me keep my tenuous footing in weeds;
Tempting cherries hang in rows like black beads.
Each cluster of tiny globes—sweet, bitter taste
Into the pail belted onto my waist.
On tiptoes I stretch forks to their extreme;
What were top branches now bend to my dream.
My pail filled to the brim with gleaming black spheres;
I descend from my wobbly perch, ending fears.
The time over bubbly fruit-sugar blends
Preparing this jelly for special, warm friends.
©2010 Carol Morfitt