The Strawberries in the Kitchen

I woke up this morning,

made coffee — black
and found myself
envying the strawberries.

They were all together in the bin
sidled up against one another,
oblivious to social distancing mandates,
immune to pain, to grief, to loss.

I moved on to another jealousy,
this time of the clementine slices,
peacefully curled into themselves,
as if preparing to model for a still life painting.

And don't get me started on the avocado—
alone in the fruit bowl, but perfectly content
browning with confidence,
asking no permission of anyone but itself.

None of them know
what it is to feel uncertainty
to risk everything for the right thing
to be pummeled by doubt in the morning
and haunted by regret in the evening.

None of them know
the wretched breath of our demons,
the salty sting of shame,
the helplessness, the fear, the darkness.

Then I remember,
what inanimate fruit cannot see—
the sunlight wiggling its fingers through the window,
the summer air, whooshing in from around the corner,
the tiny sprout on the windowsill, reaching for the sky.