And yet I tell myself, again and again

I am meant to read, not to write,
To lick, and not to bite.
The cherries are too far away, they fall
from the branch before I can rise up on my toes
And explore them with my tongue.
I'm so hungry.
I need this juice.

I cannot move.
Would you choose
A frozen muse?

I do not have the power...
To move you with my words
or my body, or my heart,
My body
My heart
It is not exquisite
is it?