Red strawberries
on a Saturday
afternoon
sizzling hot
like the polish
on her fingers,
like the unspoken words
and feelings,
disappointments
sweltering
in the burst of champagne,
in the longing
for recognition
and the pain of being left
behind
like the last
bite of blood-red peaches
and fire roasted
salsa
that stains the
white table cloth,
the pureness
of us gathering
despite
the heat
and the bridges crossed
and broken…
Red strawberries
on a Saturday
afternoon
sizzle…
©Lea Goode-Harris, Ph.D.
September 16, 2003