First Advent

Bury her under strawberries.
That girl never wed,
bury her too high for floods.
Mother, what well
will you descend?
What webs pin you to the world
now? Only others' hands,
words a small black blot
where I've held the pen too long.
Almost Christmas, the solstice
about to tip toward the sun.
No strawberries this season.
Cover her bed with hollies:
unyielding merciless red.