This foggy, chilly Thursday morning
I find myself hovering over black marble
Slicing-most meticulously, fresh strawberries
First the green tips and then into their plump, ruby middles.
Eyes focused, over and over again
Sneaking a bite: a burst of sweetness followed by the tiny popping of seeds.
I throw them two by two into a small ceramic bowl.


As I slice I look down onto my pale hands,
Observing their creaminess against the moist red berries
And from the exactness of holding the black paring knife
There is experience, purpose, and love.
I carefully place the bowl into her two little hands.
Her feet dance as she runs off.


I glance past the iridescent tiled wall-
Calm bay waters beneath foggy mist;


My thoughts
In fresh strawberries.

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