cherry picker

i remember the feeling of the knowing.
a special blend of pride, grownupness, and wonder
of understanding the word that connected to the big industrial machine it signified.
cherry picker.
cherry picker.
cherry picker.
so strange it tasted, though
even without repeating the sounds until they lost meaning
i felt the incongruous quality of the juxtaposition
pairing a delicate and organic object with such a formidable and uninviting thing as that.
though i never picked cherries as a kid, i picked everything else from blackberries and strawberries to watermelons and wildflowers.
but the ritual of picking,
of discovery and ownership and pleasure
in finding something ripe and beautiful and free
it too was somehow lost in the desolation of an ugly and spiritless machine.
but today, i reclaimed the words.
cherry picker.
i put them back where they belonged
with juice stained skin, dirty fingernails,
and scraps of bark insinuating themselves inside clothes and hair,
with pits left of trees, the greed of taking just one more handful
and tall ladders that don't quite reach
that seductively laden branch another twelve inches away.
it was a good sprawl of a late afternoon
reminiscent of lazy alabama summer break
and daydreaming our lives a la anne of green gables.

cherry. picker.


part of the cherry pitting station:
{i must have pitted five or six pounds of cherries throughout the course of the evening}