A cherry is a berry
and an acorn is a corn
and a butternut squash
is a nut just because
each fruit must find its form.

I’m the fruit of my human mother
born in the form of a man
the stamen seeks a stigma -
and receive a form it can.

Bury me beneath the earth
to prove I’m worthy
with a buttercup of whiskey
to resolve my thirst for melody
or drown it down deep in the undergrowth.

Either way I’ve found my note
my place to rest entirely
or spurt forth proud as any came before
to rot to cider with the floor apples
or blossom like a cherry in spring
become an elderberry
or weeping willow
or dissolve
in a cool glass
on a summer’s day
ice cubes, whiskey
lemonade.

Then break the glass
ask what’s ice
what’s shards
all melts
to sparkles
in the strata.