White Berries

Crawling the streets aimlessly; the sunlight’s clasping the earth
drunken and wild from the heat of the longest day
the passing clouds in the dullest sky
getting drunk by the smell of the
fresh white berries hanging
from the prideful tree as
a vintage chandelier
gazing down and
lighting up
the castle's

down on the
humid soil covered
by lucky pennies and
the ants in a hundred rows
marching home with crumbles
for their summer festivities and
flashing back, back and forth, to the
childhood stories; jumping up, watering the
persimmon tree; the time that all I cared was the fresh
white berries and the rest was just dressing up my all-time dreams.