Summer Feast

STRAWBERRIES
There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you

let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills

let the storm wash the plates
- Edwin Morgan

Labor Day concluded the last days of summer freedom for the children of this city. A day of biking, picnics, listening to concert music lying in the green grass of the city park under the trees. Summer is a prime number, cornerstone of the mathematical biological calendar of flora and fauna, the apex of bloom. Over our head, the leaves of the trees rustle in dark silhouette, fat against the blue enamel sky.

I'll spool away a moment, maybe several this week, in the exuberance and promiscuous abandon of these verdant days. So much green, too much sun, the garden bursts over the fence and the stakes holding the climbing beans sigh. The white Scottie lies on his belly in the cool grass in the shade of the plum tree, nose buried in the scent of warm earth. He doses. The sun bakes the roof tiles.

Peaches, plums, strawberries. The abundance of the farmers market. In just a few short weeks we will drift, dropping like the leaf, into apples and berries, the flame-colored gourds, darkening nights and chill mornings. But today, the wind shakes the leaves of summer trees.

And I had strawberries.