Strawberries send their sister-shoots
across the gravel path, leading the baby
to each spectacular fruit she can reach,
rain-taut and dimpled,
a connect-the-dot game for the willing.
She buries her face in the lavender bush
as content as the morning's fat bees.
An earthworm entertains her
from my opened palm,
wiggling the Good Earth Dance.
She thinks the world is edible.
She wants it all at her lips,
devours milk and sunlight
just sitting in dewed pajamas,
her whole body a taproot.
Soon, she will learn to use thumb and finger
to pick her way through her desire.
For now, her fists are berry-stained.
Grass blooms between each knuckle,
the earth, compacted, snug inside.
Kristin Berger lives in Portland, OR with her husband and daughter. She writes poetry, essays and fiction. Her work has appeared/or is forthcoming in Hip Mama, The American Poetry Journal, The Comstock Review, Verseweavers and online at The Pedestal Magazine. She recently received the New Poets Prize from the Oregon State Poetry Association.
