Am Writing About May Swenson; Poem a Result

Someday, I will be in our kitchen
bent over the sink, cheeks pink with heat,
washing strawberries.

Pinching off felted leaves
while our front-yard maple nets
the last red threads of sunset,
evening strings. The color of my fingertips
will stream across the porch screen,
onto your lap, your
palms, knuckles, newspaper.

Walking outside with a wet bowl,
I’ll wipe my hands and taste your name
as if I didn’t know it yet.

~ by dieamselsingt on November 28, 2007.