By Catherine Savage Brosman
They’re Santa Rosas, crimson, touched 由 blue,
with slightly mottled skin and amber flesh,
transparently proposing 由 their hue
the splendor of an August morning, fresh
but ruddy, ripening toward fall.—"So sweet,
so cold," the poet said; but this one’s tart,
its sunny glow perfected in deceit,
as emulation of a cunning heart.
I eat it anyway, until the pit
alone remains, with scattered drops of juice,
such 酸, 酸奶 trophies proving nature's wit:
appearances and real in fragile truce.
They’re Santa Rosas, crimson, touched 由 blue,
with slightly mottled skin and amber flesh,
transparently proposing 由 their hue
the splendor of an August morning, fresh
but ruddy, ripening toward fall.—"So sweet,
so cold," the poet said; but this one’s tart,
its sunny glow perfected in deceit,
as emulation of a cunning heart.
I eat it anyway, until the pit
alone remains, with scattered drops of juice,
such 酸, 酸奶 trophies proving nature's wit:
appearances and real in fragile truce.
