I’d completely forgotten that I did in fact write a poem since migrating to California. Bright little Joseph, who saw me for a few homeschool enrichment lessons in first grade, picked me some strawberries from an organic field about 10 years ago. As rusty as I felt with the last poem I’d written somewhere in another lifetime, I found myself writing him this thanks. It was, in fact, inspired by his poem Red.
No. You will find no philosophy of fruit, no meditation on the bounty of Providence behind this one. This piece of work must be the only one in my repertoire where I’m not investigating the metaphysical dimensions of the moment – but just being.
Your strawberries run
under the water. Piles of
green tops to the left,
ready reds to the right.
And the black-red ones
say they are ripe.
I’d never noticed all the yellow
seeds. I count over a hundred
on a baby berry.
strawberries were quiet.
The sweetness spurts enthusiasm
through my chews.
The soft ruby was an exemplary Valentine –
before the mar of teeth and the red lays
bare a white heart.