Strawberry moon
Lush with the kiss of warm evenings and
sticky sweet fruit promises
it hangs ripe and fat where
abundance meets greed and
juice bursts, flows, rushes
sating all senses
In belly-tight contentment, we lie under gentle air
that whispers to my skin, and turn
to trust this season’s lust
and, eventually, the pink edges of evening
intoxicate and there’s no room to remember
Round this corner in other years
there were worm holes and the gone-over mess
of berries indolence left ungathered
and plants too dry to wait until the clouds came
as tired fruits collapsed into mush and dust
Photo by Justus Menke on Unsplash
