Raspberries and Baseball

Raspberries

A bowl of vanilla
ice cream
as white as the apple
of your eye.
Topped with
nine
lost in the wild
red
raspberries.
Game-Time Weather:
Fresh yellow of daisies, not the father orange of July, nor the old man red-orange of August, or still older bleached-orange of Fall,

not the infant one of March, but the teeming one of late Spring, teasing practical joker.

One day your scout
has your attention
then disappears
for a week, sends a postcard
from the Road.
“Wish you were here! The sun is a marshmallow on a stick in a fire on the beach, the wave mister going
‘Miss you!’”
The simple
raspberry
crumbling nodes.
Vestigial poem:
100 drupelets.
And here’s the pitch –
Tart fruit!
Swung on
and there’s a drive,
deep left center,
Davis at a gallop,
dives,
one hands it!
Warm,
right off
the green cane.