Empty Beds Poem by Andrew Dabar
Empty Beds
Strawberries, like the children who pick them, are a fragile fruit, colorful and sweet. The ripening season for both disappears far too soon.
Less than three weeks ago, two little girls I know walked up and down each long, long row—baskets swinging, voices singing, fingers and lips stained red—now, suddenly, these empty, wrinkled beds. Half-past June. Under the cricket moon.
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Andrew Dabar
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/19/2024 11:47:20 AM # 1.0.0.1119
