In the quiet of a dawning night
everything stills into this motion of you
plucking my stems
and halving me in quick bites.
You separate pit from flesh.
The newly pink is bitter against your tongue,
the ripened parts are sweetness and juice
down your chin.
And the concave shape that is left,
where you dented and grew inside of me,
is consumed again
and changed again
and remolded so wholly into a newer life.
Without you I will be the wild cherry tree,
brought to season far from selective hands
growing tall with only wind to seduce me.