I stumble,
spill strawberries across asphalt.
You kneel without a word,
hands bearing sweetness into mine,
sun radiant around your dark head.
You look nothing like all
those paintings of you, pale, hanging,
framed in gilt,
stylized eyes looking up
and away.
Comments on Friendsjournal.org may be used in the Forum of the print magazine and may be edited for length and clarity.