Chokecherries

“. . . though your sins be as scarlet, 
they shall be white as snow … ” 
—Isaiah 1:18 

Dark berries abound 
like full moons; 
the sight of ripeness 
in sunstruck orbs 
puckers your mouth. 
Tiny stones blackened 
like clotted blood. 

Round wonders borne in spikes, 
what is sacramental 
turned blanch-white with blossom. 
Although the syrup, 
tart for tasting, 
holds a bitterness, 
coloring your lips a deep purple, 

all the losses 
laughed and cried about 
from buckets of impulsive berries 
will come back— 
the bits of hate in every love affair, 
the wonder of paradox 
in the anxious throat of spring.