A Strawberry

When Grandpa Morris was a boy,
he'd go off to the sun-crazed fields
to seed and plough, and if he saw
a strawberry, ripe and ready,

he'd pick it, cradle it in his
hands when not at work, a gift for
mother. At sunset, he'd present
the strawberry for her sweet smile.

When he came to these golden shores,
he'd patch elbows of his sweaters,
and send dollars back home wrapped in
sheets of carbon paper to fool

the censors. This, before all turned
to ash, except for one niece. Tales
told mouth to mouth of man and boy,
of strawberry and sweater.