Wild Strawberries

I'll tell you how it was, what she remembers:

the scent of rhubarb and strawberries in the wild

where she hid and the cries of the murdered,

they do not want to die away. If possible,

please give me pills and show me something simple:

a garden with some beds. I'll keep them weeded

with my fingers and one of those short-handled shovels,

tearing out stalks, arranging them in heaps

with no regret, letting them yellow, turn sun-bleached.

Observing fruit will tutor me in color

and weight, in time. A garden should have plenty

of fruit by which to keep track of the calendar.

And trees that herald the spring to come.

When it arrives, I will be ready. Barefoot, wide-eyed,

I'll lie down in my faded shirt on the earth and hide

under the rhubarb, under the strawberry blossoms.