Frozen Cherries

Poured out, they clink like ice cubes against the china bowl, globes of deep maroon, sparkling with frost.  I use the same pair of bamboo chopsticks, tips tinted pale indigo with the juice of countless cherries and blueberries. I tweezer them one by one into my mouth.  Cold.  They crunch between my teeth.  Sweet.  The juice melts across my tongue. The day's bright heat is outside; I am inside in the shady cool, and the cherries are melting inside me.