We thought there was blood on our hands
from all the strawberries that we had picked,
when I looked up the late summer sun was setting
right behind her head, darkening her blond hair
like it was iron bars on a cage,
she wore her white dress, the one with maroon polka dots,
her delicate hand holding our basket of strawberries, her
beautiful smile caught in the excitement of her blue eyes,
but off in the distance I heard the stillness of the wind
as it went dying down.
"It's the end of summer," she said, standing there
in the field like a ghost.
Looking down at the folds in her hands, she said:
"I think I'm broken in six-hundred and thirty-seven
different places."