A pint of raspberries rests
in the lap of a pint-sized child.
Lolling in her stroller, she’s
living in the lap of luxury.
“Don’t eat them,” Mom says,
as the little one begins eating,
two-handed, two-fisted,
too much; we laugh until
we grow red as raspberries.
The poems here are from Mike’s series Cornucopia.
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Poetry