Just Before Winter
When we were young she’d sit in my ams on warm spring mornings, under the chestnut tree. And I fed her the freshest wild strawberries.
Later, in our garden allotment, we used to pick the eldeberries together, to turn into wine that tasted so sweet on her lips.
Some things are better left unsaid: I leave the berries to rot on the bushes now, in the pine forest among the trees where I walk, alone.
an autumn wind
and empty fruit baskets