We force the raspberries from their stem

and later laugh at their sourness. We are

often too quick, or maybe just

too trusting of small things.

I can still feel the juice from shared morning fruits

despite the relentless efforts of our tongues,

tracing and retracing skin

to subdue the stubborn stickiness.

I surrender to

the familiar scene of intimacy

as our sights intersect and we

savor the fading-sweet taste.

You pause to mouth: We should plant another.

(I want these saplings to stay small.

I want us to.)

Soon half-light scans waiting hands resting on the dinner table.

Soon the growing chorus of crickets spurs the faintest whisper of

Just one more.

One more piece.

One more moment.

One more. One more.

One more.

Inspired by:

"Beside the stove / we ate an orange. And there were purple flowers / on the table. And we still had hours." "Stolen Moments" (1999) by Kim Addonizio [poetry].