The strawberries from the north
busy themselves
getting into things that should not concern them;
spilling with each crisp bite
staining your shirt
dribbling onto the grass.
That spot that won’t wipe clean
clings sticky to my palm,
a trail of tissue bits for the effort.
They colour our smiles;
they spew with our laughter—
stained hands,
cold strawberries,
a warm day.
No comments:
Post a Comment