first strawberries of the season
(home-grown, or so the sign claimed)
discovered on a Sunday morning
the sound of saintly congregations
faintly in the background

I confess we never stopped to look
whose field they had been plucked from –
luscious, red, and buxom-ripe
they were ours, now,
for the taking

we hurried home. I washed them
(reverently)
you found forks, and we went to bed
we shared a bowl of breakfast strawberries
and the taste was of the winter’s end.