For the first time since I planted my miniature sweet cherry tree nine years ago, the birds haven't eaten all the fruit before I could get to it. They'd swoop in and get every last cherry despite noise makers, pie tins, nets, rock throwing, bb guns, and screaming. Not this year. Today there is cherry juice on my chin and the air smells like chives, roses, and wet leaves. Today smells like sweet goodness.
My hair smells like poetry, like the wind, like hot sand, like a country song, like a wolf.
The man in the moon is real. I touched him. He fed me cheese. It wasn't green. It was bleu. My favorite.
You say Clematis, I say Clitoris.
I found a cave man hiding in the rocks. I gave him some whiskey and tied him to a tree. I think he likes me.
The angel in the garden isn't fallen. She's just working on her tan.
Life isn't like a bowl of cherries.