Strawberry Nation

Jonathan Edwards, in his famous paper describing the behavior of spiders, noted “the exuberance of creation,”  as though he wouldn’t have minded swinging on a thread of silk for a few minutes.  At strawberry season I catch a scent of exuberance, especially when the plants I set in four years ago decide to go wild.

A teeming city

under their leaf canopy, little green speckled toes

nestle together, wiggling with excitement,

drinking the dew

awaiting the day

when they will blush, sigh, and then

EXPLODE

into red—that honest, hilarious, innocent red

that stops just short of gaudy.

Under glossy serrated leaves they whisper

and giggle, growing sweeter, drawing toward

that exquisite balance between soft and firm—

that coy show of al dente.  Then giving way—

collapsing in a wave of juice,

the tart-sweet fountain,

the jaunty, flag-waving flavor that says

Strawberry (nothing but),

in a joyful, uncomplicated shout,

before collapsing somewhere

between tongue and throat.

So cute,

so cheerful,

so nothing-other,

nudging memory with

their saucy sweetness, a

nation of bright schoolgirlish glee

huddles below the leaves, and

calls you to come and find it.