Strawberries. Blueberries. Blackberries. Cherries. I could spend the next hour experimenting with the order of those four words, to see and hear which looks and sounds best with the color, flavor, and meaning they convey — or the next week, and the next, until berries and cherries give way to melons and peaches. And if I say it’s a listening thing, the falling of water on rocks and the crack of a bat, a path through a forest without looking back, it couldn’t be nearer or farther than that from their juice on my tongue. Language is like that — is that — and beyond. Language is song. And the planet we’re on is ripe and ready to fall, and no hand is too small, love, to catch it, and hold it, and bring it to the table.
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