Strawberry

 

Strawberry

 

She could be blonde, it could be dyed,

like most things that start from the inside

and grow outwards to greet the eye -

Behold her. You might guess Scandinavia,

possibly it has been brushed by Agnetha,

as there’s something going on - but no -

you’d be wrong because she belongs

to Czechoslovakia. It’s The Republic now,

she once insisted, when I was oblivious.

It’s been a tough month for both of us

for her, more than me, you’d guess,

what with war’s constant missile warnings,

school foreclosed, distance learning

imposed a second time this decade.

Age has withered her. There are lines -

some born of stubbornness, others kind,

it is ten years passed since we first met

and she picked me up - so I can forget

that in my heart I made a silent compact

to always protect. I feel I should pass by;

see her bright diamonds twinkle lively

today - for what she does we do – not die.

We smile. Shy. I want to see your lovely face,

I said, candid, thinking of a thousand ships,

and then, to my surprise, she blushed

to her roots. We passed some small talk

about history repeating, the day’s work,

how she snuck to her office, forbidden.

So,  I wondered if you could love so much

that all transgressions could be forgiven

even when her rage will come again,

thoughts can touch, and hearts can mend,

and her husband looking like Santa Claus

passes parcels through a shutting door.