Strawberries
A big, glass bowl of oranges
with eight pleated butterflies—
perfectly symmetrical
etched along the side.
The sunlight, with all the eagerness,
all the youth of morning
pouring through
each glass insect
casts forty intersecting rainbows
onto the deep brown landscape
of the dining
room table.
Your thumb, dragging gently along
the rim, as your tongue moves
in contemplative circles
behind a small smile.
It is always summer in the fields of my memory,
and the strawberries dance ceaselessly toward you.
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