There was that day at the orchard,
a hot July day, when, who could explain why,
it began to hail. And within two minutes,
a whole crop of ripe sweet cherries were pocked
and rendered unsellable.
And I was the fruit grower’s wife who ran outside
and felt the sharp sting of hail on my bare arms
and I raised my face to the sky and screamed No!
But the hail fell and did its devastation.
In seconds it had melted. The sun came quickly out.
And I stood amidst acres of ruined fruit,
my no just one small note unheard
in the grand score of yes.
Since that day, when I hear myself say no,
I remember how I walked down the rows
bringing blemished cherry
after blemished cherry to my lips,
the world exactly as it was,
despite my resistance,
sweet red juice dripping down my chin,
staining my hands.