Bent over raspberry pie, 
my tongue the taproot of my soul. 
Gems jammed and canned,
sounding themselves in the crushing. 
Rushing to the world, sweetening 
the pie. Glorifying snowmelt 
and sunshine. Tiny sun-run harvesters, 
wide loads running row on row 
of wind. Sweetening the Spirit-breath 
so it can samba down my tastebuds. 
Stomp the Paso Doble up the edges, 
the red cape of the bull-fighter 
folded into the butter-flaked crust. 
Alabaster flask of raspberry juice,
fork-cracked to anoint the mouth’s alleys,
flow up the root system,
and feed my soul.