Strawberry Farm

She eats every single one she sees¹,
I know.
I've been watching for a while now.
"Look after Cheryl", Mom had told me
when we arrived;
and I kicked the parking lot gravel,
but nodded and said I would.
I mean,
Cheryl's five, right?
She carries her own bucket;
she walks just fine;
no toddling, no weaving.
But I took her hand and set off,
"Not too far," Mom called to us,
and I nodded again,
settling along some thick bushes
three rows away;
within shouting range,
but out of those eagle eyes,
"Go get 'em, Cher," I said,
finding sis moments later, giggling and sharing a bush
with a friend she'd made on the fly;
and, behind them,
the friend's tender watched the pair
while I watched her;
blonde hair tinged appropriately,
stained fingers matching
the colour on her lips
and chin,
as the lingering juices
left by each bite she took
of every berry she picked
made me catch my breath,
feeling so much painful bliss.<sup>2




1</sup> in "Black Raspberry", by annaswirls ©2003.
² in "Tease My Empty Heart", by averagegina ©2004.