strawberry summers

I remember the way the hot sun felt on my freckled cheeks-

long blond hair protecting my shoulders

and tiny sweat beads along my jewish nose.

It was my chore to pick the strawberries

for dinner-

from the tower my parents had built.

Three tiers tall

I remember the way the warm berries

gushed between my teeth-

filling my mouth with ease.

Squatting down with my bowl, I picked-

I ate, picked, ate.

I am sure my mother always wondered why our

plants produced so few-

my berry stained lips told the truth.


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