by Ivan Donn Carswell
The red berries wreak an awesome spell that some would dread;
others, weak and soulless, must succumb, they treasure with the eyes
the plump and soulful fruit, the shape inspires a heady heart that beats
aright as if in love, and love it is that drives the buds describing taste.
You treasure with the tongue, you suck the juice august and pure
and thus are done. The journey back to reason stings with acid barbs
that cling in blushing shame of juices in the blood and on the skin
and tightness in the chest, the crème you swear has done you harm,
you’d best pass up dessert today. But reason begs you to delay, to wait
until the season ends. And so, dear friend, strawberries again today.
© I.D. Carswell
Last updated May 02, 2015