Stepping barefoot out into a leafy glimmering patch. Junebearers shoo-in little red desires. O’ how they dazzle my senses.
Like when I was nine and picked all the wild strawberries from Gram’s patch. Couldn’t resist the taste. With stained fingertips and crimson mouth…I buried the leftover leafy evidence.
That Metamora June, when I was nearly seventeen; I gave you more than a handful of plump red gems. I had somewhere buried my leftover stained heart in that festival ground.
Your daughter, now seventeen, is the Jen gem of June. She harvest her own Junebearers with hands like yours.
O’ Junebearers…Junebearers, the truth you hold about June. They are here, as you are. They are gone, as you are.
Poem: Naomi Ruth
Images: Pinterest and ceramic image: Naomi Ruth