Fallen Strings

Too many dreamberries
eaten too soon,
The tree doesn't care
how its thickets blossom,
The berries themselves
spread purple
On fertile faces and fields
imagining a flavor
Not carried by birds to the sea
with our yearning.

Ebullient seeds disguised
in mournful crashing,
We conjure in haze their display
as sunbeams hold back rapture,
The fattest and sweetest rise
to the froth top of cream,
They bubble above butter's slow churn
and go down too soon,
The record of God is the permanent
in all this turning,
The batter-dripping spirals of motion
that never thicken,
Always resisting everything
but our fascination
Played on a string and whirred
to sublime violet.