An Aria of Wind

At seven years of age, I used to love cherries so.
Come to me as cherries.
The ripe ones.
The bees completely flustered by them.

At seven years of age, I thought the world would
one day be peaceful, parents loved each other eternally
and the sound of a train on a track was like an iron
man guitar wailing standing on the tracks playing them
beyond mercy.

Come to me as cherries.
Come to me through a dark corridor of life as a child who
knew joy but also knew, segregation and sorrow.
At seven, I loved the cherry tree in our back yard so, it
made my heart beat quickly, wildly with a passion so direct.
I would get dressed on Saturday mornings in the warm months
and visit the tree I had named "Oma" in the back yard.
Can you see me?
A seven-year-old Black girl still loving even after being called
"nigger" and punched and hit, wrapping her golden-hued arms
around the truck of the tree after caressing its smoothness and resting her head against it.
Kissing it. Not in a romantic manner but a knowing its soul and appointed
time of death manner, wanting my touches to be accepted by God as thanks.
Telling a cherry tree in her mind about the soul of a lightning bug...
About the beauty of its pink blossoms.

My mother used to watch this "ritual" from a window.
My arms all the way around.
Then, a final kiss.

Then the next summer when the cherry tree was struck by
lightning my mother told me gently it was gone and held me,
grieved inside of my grieving.
Stroked my face.
I went to the yard and saved a tiny piece of bark.
This was life.
Joy rushing in.
Sorrow in pursuit quickly after it.
Hold. Touch while you can.
Stare into honey sweet amber.
Then, let go.
Run across the yard of life grateful for experience,
for the having known. Carry life knowledge like seeds, hope.

At eight, I stood where the cherry tree had been
created a pulpit of gardenias and song.
Memorial for things we can not truly have for ever
but are blessed with in the "while" of things.
My arms are rebellious now and empty as I grow older.
But, I always will remember holding and the cherry's sensual
juice at my lips, staining them in this exhilarating red way.

Come to me as cherries.
As spiritual nectar rushing over my soul.
All of the epithets, cross burnings and sorrows die
in this living life beyond that like flames put out.
I will hold, pull you in so close, place my soul within yours.
Laugh.
But, have wisdom concerning the matrix of change.
Come like breeze from God and wrap around me
for the moment but in some odd way for eternity.