As I hull them
I think of the summer day
when Jen and I
rode our bikes
over Wisconsin hills
to the berry farm
and picked so many berries
we had to drive back later
with a car—
how hard it is
to be moderate
when met with abundance.
I froze the strawberries then
as I do now,
small red sweetnesses
for winter when
I will find it hard
to remember
just how generous
the sun.
Oh if that girl of twenty two
could see me now,
standing in the kitchen,
what would I tell her?
Nothing. Not a thing.
She has so much
to learn about trying
to save what she loves.
Better to just let her
see me as I am now—
red juice on my fingers,
red juice on my chin,
a pucker on my lips.
