The Taste

Picking strawberries with my Grandmother

The warming sun smiling down at us

Look under the dark green leaves

Lift that, lift this one

Find a hidden ruby

‘Oh no, leave this one for later’

Not ripe enough, not ripe enough, not ripe enough

Pan through the rows

Pop them in a basket, pop them in a mouth

Dusty dirt soils my hands

Sitting, kneeling, crouching in-between the trenches

But no battle field here, just a field with red not of sorrow

Plump berries

Colored and flavored like love

Reflecting remembrances of Christmas

Red adorned the world

Basket becomes a volcano erupting

Lava rolls down

Lava too hot to handle

‘That’s enough’

Strawberry Cobbler is tonight’s dessert

Memories from long ago keep re-surfacing

I keep on having a strawberry taste in my mouth

A sickly-sweet savor

Twisted feelings

Oxymoron emotions

Heart ache and heart willing

I close my eyes and think

and that’s all I do

Think

The flavor lessons and them comes again

Time to do it’s next ever-coming rounds

Around and around I play this game

The taste never quite leaves my lips

The strawberry tang holds me

Holds me in memories

Re-surfacing memories

Why must the finish line keep on moving?

I am captive by something most persons relish

The strawberry taste ever anew

Never quite fleeting

Holding me tight

Might be a warm hug or a choke hold

I might never know

But all I know

is that it holds me.

 

strawberries-1037174_960_720

Pixabay/RPN

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2 responses »

  1. The five senses can generate memories we have forgotten. So can great posts! I remember picking strawberries in my grandpas garden as a child with more going in my mouth than the bucket.

    Like

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