Theresa of Avila in the Garden

The strawberry fills my mouth, a rude kiss, a soft bruise against the back of my teeth. Red and ripe, voluptuous and sweet. Juice bleeds down the sides of my mouth. It's permissible to slowly lick one's stained fingers, one at a time, eyes closed in prolonged ecstasy. Theresa of Avila in the Garden. I hesitate. The next berry might disappoint, lack the perfection of the first berry: warm and ripe and willing. Hands on my hips, I contemplate my garden, disapproving of its unwillingness to yield. Ogallala Everbearing, guaranteed to bear and yet they stubbornly refuse to send out runners. They tease me with deep green leaves, hopeful white blossoms, yellow-eyed. They hide beneath the wild lupine that cruelly invade my bed. They lure yarrow into their domain, and the yarrow, too, conspires to deny me berries. Too long I have accepted their wild undisciplined ways. No more. I uproot the bed, lupine and berries and yarrow all together. Glean the berries and start over: add compost and ashes. The detritus of life dug into the soil, unwelcome wild yarrow and lupine exiled, unruly scrub oak expelled. The bed now fallow until next Spring, until the Gurney Seed Catalog arrives and the ever-bearing strawberries, glossy and perfect and unattainable, sing their sweet siren song, and I again succumb.