Jo Balistreri

Second Chances

From a girl’s arm, a tin pail swings like a silver minnow darting through warm currents. Fields of buttercups wave in the breeze, an outrageous explosion of yellow in an early summer meadow. Following the smell of ripe strawberries, the child weaves through long grasses to the woods. There, they grow in abundance. She picks the tiny fruits Mother has requested for a pie. Feels the juice run down her chin. Tastes the sun, warm in her mouth.

In the evergreen woods beyond, the gurgle of a creek draws her close. The child picks violets from the bank and makes mud pies. The pail sits empty. There will be no home-baked pie today.

Many years later, a grown woman walks a different path, in a different part of the country. Unexpectedly, a familiar scent unwinds a thread of memory: a yellow meadow, a pebble-bottomed brook, wild strawberries…

The woman eats these newly found berries. Perfect, she thinks. Sweet and perfect. She’ll come back and pick enough to fill a crust. This time, she will make the dessert and surprise Mother. Again.

the sun's tremolo
through spruce shadows
Proust's madeleines

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About the Author

Jo Balistreri has three published books of poetry and a chapbook. Even when “Jo” isn’t writing haiku she is thinking about it as it helps her to maintain a sense of gratitude and appreciation. She and her husband live in Duluth, Minnesota. Visit her at maryjobalistreripoet.com.

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