Strawberries
In the season of strawberries
the blight hit and she was swallowed.
Like ripe fruit
there was something sweet and succulent
about her.
She grew in fertile soil
where vine roots thrust deep,
but suddenly she withered
and was brought home to die.
Knowing she’d be everlasting in His vineyard
we prayed for miracles
while she played the coquette with death.
Plucked ripe at thirteen
she left a stain.
After the service
we gathered on the church lawn.
Her mother
pale and haunting
draped in black
closed her eyes
hugging mourners
feeling the loss.
The carillon rang.
Colored balloons
released in bouquets
soared and scattered
like wild strawberries
and in the gentle breeze
tulips swayed
like church vessels
stained red.