I am certain that,
at some point,
I will create
a little red hen-type poem
about the joy of picking pie cherries
(with permission)
from The Neighbor’s tree,
processing the cherries
by putting them,
one by one,
and giving them to my aunt
to let her make them into
a fabulous cherry pie
nearly a year after the Harvest.
But right now,
my fingers are sore
from pulling out the pits.
My back is sore
from standing at the counter
too short for me,
and my hands are too messy
from the cherry juice
that has squirted out
all over the entire kitchen.
And besides,
I don’t even know
what the pie
will taste like.
Addendum:
As it turns out,
this was even more
of a Little Red Hen poem
than I thought it would be.
I’d delayed,
too long,
bringing my Aunt
the pie cherries.
So I took them back home,
put together a fruit crisp
(previously made with apples,
or peaches,
or strawberries,
or rhubarb,
or something similar).
This time, it featured my home-harvested
pie cherries.
Served ala’ mode after
a massive Easter dinner
with family and friends,
the self-picked-and-pitted-and-prepared-and-baked-organic-pie-cherry-crisp
was something I should eat
and share
by myself.
And so I did.
