Worldly
Sept 11 2025
Strawberries in winter.
As startling
as luscious red fruit
on freshly fallen snow.
They don’t belong.
Too pale, too small,
too out of time and place.
They materialized
in clear clamshell containers
on the supermarket shelf
as if conjured from air,
exhausted
after a long hard trip,
jet-lagged or sea-sick
or shocked how cold it is
this far out of season.
I will eat them with my eyes closed
to pretend they’re really red,
help discern the fruity scent
that’s barely there.
Will try hard
to imagine the taste
of strawberries in July
I picked myself.
A man of the world
who turns up his nose
at root vegetables
and bottled preserves.
Too impatient to wait,
too greedy to say no.
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