Strawberries

In this time of cross words and insults (of which i’ve received some dillies), which nearly always leads to worse, i have escaped. i will not discuss politics. i prefer to keep friends from across the spectrum, even though i know i will lose the most strident. That too is okay because that is on them, not me. After i posted last night, i felt free this morning. Maureen and i woke about the same time and did home things together. It was a great feeling. When i saw her at our garden boxes, the below thoughts crossed my mind…and our home grown strawberries taste wonderful, better than the store-bought kind.

It was an odd morning:
grey with a slight drizzle
in southwest corner june;
the marine layer gone a little haywire
with actual rain, not mist to burn off before midday;
saturday morning, early,
we went about our chores
leading us outside;
she walked to the backyard,
lifting the net of the strawberry garden
to pick the luscious red berries
from the thick green foiliage
as i watched undetected
from the side yard
and
i thought of classic paintings
of a woman in a field
but she was more elegant,
more sublime,
even more graceful,
and
i thought of my Aunt Corrine
gathering eggs from the hen house
in the corner of the farmyard
in early morning light
when Papa, my great uncle,
with me by his side would return
from milking the cows in the barn
but
she was not Aunt Corrine;
the strawberries were definitely not eggs
and
she was mine,
still leaving me breathless
at times
just like the first time we met
as she walked toward me
with the sun behind her,
graceful, elegant, sublime
taking my breath away
just like she did
this odd damp june morning.

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