Strawberries

A big, glass bowl of oranges with eight pleated butterflies— perfectly symmetrical etched along the side. The sunlight, with all the eagerness, all the youth of morning pouring through each glass insect casts forty intersecting rainbows onto the deep brown landscape of the dining room table. Your thumb, dragging gently along the rim, as your tongue moves in contemplative circles behind a small smile. It is always summer in the fields of my memory, and the strawberries dance ceaselessly toward you.