Why can’t we
eat strawberries
all through the bright May days
and, like in that Scottish verse,
let the rain wash clean our plates?
Those poems gone lazy with love
once struck me as ingenuine.
How could one lose all aspiration,
save for holding their lover
in tender elation?
But now, I want the bustle
to still.
I want soft silence, soft touch,
and such an abundance
of shared moments
that we forget to hoard them
and let each morning dawn,
ignoring that someday
this time will be gone.
The sky grumbles
a few miles west,
a storm brewing in the distance.
Our plates-
stained pink on the porch steps,
we pretend not to notice.
The bright day dims,
and we shudder, wondering
what’s next once we’re
rescued from our mess.
Once our plates
are rain-washed
in summer.
pm poetry 