Katrina Kaye

You pick the ripest cherry,
and gift me the treasure like gold.

I set it on my tongue,
crush the tender skin into sticky mush,
separate the seed from the sweet
hold it in my teeth.

We decide to plant every seed.
We find a shady spot,
a place praised by morning sun,
yet safe from the afternoon burn,
and lay down our seeds.

We water with best intentions
and tend with the most desperate of hope.
But the ground is hard, stark and barren,
and gold does not sprout from wishes,
no matter how well tended.