In afternoon sun, golden strands glow
just right under a bright red rim, blend
with pink, soft purple fruit – one
stacked against another, one on top
peaking above the others
the one you will touch first, and hold
like the hand of a child, feel
skin soften your own callous flesh
then set it aside to inspect two or three
more, considering the paradox
of firm skin covering a river of juice,
anticipating a sticky stream
from the corners of your mouth
dripping down to your elbows.
You decide on the whole basket.
They belong together.
For a time everything fits.
The world is fine, an eternal garden.
You set the basket on a dependable table
covered with patterned cloth, adjust
window shades – evening sunbeams
slip through yellowing a basket,
rimmed in red, full of the sweet
promise of tomorrow.