Blessed be the fruit
that survives its own season.
For in glass and sugar,
we caught the sun.
We sealed July in paraffin wax,
and whispered small prayers
over boiling pots
while bees rattled the screens.
Now, in the cold months,
we open the jar,
and pop —
there it is again:
summer, soft and sticky on our tongues.
Childhood wrapped in toast,
seeds like freckles,
and sweetness that refuses to die.
Praise be to hands that stir,
to spoons that scrape,
to the humble strawberry
who offers itself to forever.
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