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I reach
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.

I strip
Each cluster of tiny globes—sweet, bitter taste
Into the pail belted onto my waist.

Don’t trip!
On tiptoes I stretch forks to their extreme;
What were top branches now bend to my dream.

It’s here.

My pail filled to the brim with gleaming black spheres;
I descend from my wobbly perch, ending fears.

So dear,
The time over bubbly fruit-sugar blends
Preparing this jelly for special, warm friends.

©2010 Carol Morfitt

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