We stood in my memories
of sunsets in Switzerland,
rose-gold colors on the lake,
the diamond halo
of a full moon in June.
I was dreaming
you gave me strawberry seeds
that came in a golden packet.
I was to grow them
with tenderness,
like your grandmother
(with the heart-shaped face).
I asked if they’d grow wild
like a clinging vine
and frame me smiling from my window.
You said wild strawberries don’t cling
or climb, they don’t have to
to bear fruit.