One early Spring, his farmer hands sowed the seeds.

That small patch grew, doubled in size, between the plum trees.

I always thought this new crop was meant for her.

A vivid red, so feminine and deep.

We might name a lipstick after it.

But the red we try to name and explain, 

Will not pale in comparison to this one.

Because nothing, nothing, would ever define this red

Better than the strawberry itself, against the green leaves,

Embraced by the holding skin, touching the softness of her lips.

That small strawberry squished by her little fingers,

Its juice dripping down her hands, the rolled up sleeves, 

All the way to the fringed skirt of mama’s dress.

That summer heat absorbed, that love expressed.

In the incidental heart shaped berry. 

Every other plant, showing teeth marks, the field mouse

That reached that strawberry before she did.

I try and imagine the scent, the taste, making this day even brighter,

To this small creature, that reaches up, while we bend over for it.

The hungry mouse, my daughter’s face covered in dripping red juice, 

Both looking to taste that same moment of summer, that pleasure.

The ceramic bowl at the kitchen table will overflow. 

Who will bake the shortcake? And whip the cream? Gladly. 

Here is a harvest meant for her.