A stray cat rubs against sheets on the line
searching for resistance. Finding none,
she slinks away, passing the patch
where you planted strawberries so long ago,
never expecting them to return every year.
 
I remember harvesting, you feeding me one,
two, three sun warmed and rich with scent.
I remember seeded skins, slick flesh, cotton wombs.
You, so close you heard the sounds
of my chewing, laughed, fed me more.
 
Now the cat steps lightly
on the path overgrown with thyme,
hungry for something no longer here.
Where has it all gone? Those summers
of strawberry and peach sunsets,
 
those moments between moments when
we sat and sipped the scents of the season at its peak,
when we celebrated the fruit, the tarnished moon,
the split light of time paused.