Planting Strawberries

By Betty Doyle, with commentary from Alice Hiley

I like the texture of thick soil –
its wet grit catching under my nails,
its black smear across my knee.

But mostly it is good to feel loved:
to cup the tiny pink seeds in my palm
and feel their dependance – their trust

that I will not scatter them into windfall;
that I will play sun-mother, storm-goddess;
and protect them in frost, watch them grow plump.

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