by Christine Adams Beckett
“I could get used to this.”
My stoic companion’s heels
rested on the cabin railing
In front of her, her feet forming
A Vee, mirroring the mountain pass before her.
A plate of wild strawberries balanced
Precociously on her lap.
Les fraises du bois, sweeter,
More acidic than the
The caricature version
Packed in a plastic box
At the A&P, a mere suggestion
Of the genuine, alpine version:
Delicate, dark, a decidedly
Unseasoned traveller, and wholly
Uninterested in private enterprise.
Fruit foraged from the woods,
Hidden at the edges of tree carpets
That adorned the Rocky Mountains:
We came dressed, ourselves, in bells
To deter bears, miles stolen
As if by Venus herself and
Left to contemplate Icarus soaring
Around the setting sun.
An impossible image,
Framed in vertigo and
Quickened breath, I turned from
The majesty, delegated it to a corner, to
Fade with age and romance.
“I don’t want to get used to this,”
I responded, fearing prolonged
Exposure would burn it
Away, like a jammed
Eight millimeter cell, muted as
An old knee-weakening ballad,
A torch song, turned
To background music.