Strawberry Picking Esther Nixon (@serein.poetry) I remember. We used to stroll, purpose filled, through your farms. I saw it as a game, “Who can pick the most strawberries?” You would walk along, basket in hand, a wild look in your eyes. Then you’d run your hand through your golden hair as the harsh sun beat down, and your eyes would scan mischievously as you searched for your target. You’d lay your eyes on the most vibrant fruit. Soft, plump…and yet, not quite ready for the taking. Your hand reached out, and you’d grasp firmly at its stem. Tugging, gently at first, then harder. Until it b r o k e. Until it would come apart, ripped away from the branches it clung to safely. You’d go along your way, continuing to pick them as you wished. Until your basket was full. Filled to the brim. But there was room for more, you said. Then, you’d turn to me, with a wicked gleam in your eyes, filled with pride and victory. If I had known then, that I’d be your next picking, ripe for the taking, I wouldn’t have let myself fall into your basket, with all the others.
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