The cherry pit, gave the cherry
its inevitable ending
after being chewed violently
by the kid on Grandma’s front porch.
But, the pit, it only knows
being nibbled by ants in a forest of grass.
Somewhere in between its Cyanide Dreams,
it could’ve been a tree,
it could’ve been so free
from the teeth, the jaw
of a destructive kid
who likes to magnify ants
into spontaneous combustion.
But it’s not really spontaneous is it?
The pits, they say, only last for a day
in the grand scheme.
But a worm on a leaf
gave one man so much grief.
The cyanide,
they say is a silly sort of poison-
and the ants are immune with instinct of choice.
Should they choose to amuse the eager thought
of what’s inside that meager cherry pit,
lest they ignore the fruit one could kill an entire hill.
But on that hill, I saw,
so clear, it wasn’t mine
to feast and dine on fruit
frivolously spat out on the greenest ground.
They say the grass is greener,
but Jonah could’ve had a cleaner point of view,
but you see God built him askew
so we could understand and be renewed.
I am not a pit, I am a seed,
cared for and given need.
I produce what I produce,
planted deep within the dirt.
Given pride and sunshine.
Maybe that disgusting kid was onto something.
The thought, the flow. . .
He is all that matters to himself,
yet I’m stuck like an unread book on the shelf.
So what you may not know,
I have the uncanny ability to grow.
