"warm strawberries on a painted altar..."

it sat in the far corner of her potting shed
a little white step stool peeling from years
of being used in the garden...come rain
or shine. 

there must have been a time when it was
taller, a small bedside table perhaps,
one that held a lamp, a clock, a book,
and a glass of water...

but somewhere on its journey from the
bedroom to the garden shed, someone
had cut down its legs, one, always a
bit shorter than the other three, and now
there is a charming lopsidedness,
perfect for the uneven rows of
soft black dirt between the strawberries...

last summer I visited her, and what she wanted
most was warm strawberries, fresh from
her garden, still smelling of soil and sun..

that old step stool fit across the fragile outline
of her narrow hips beneath bedsheets and soft quilts...
as lumpy and uneven as the topography of her garden
a tiny table for holding a saucer of strawberries
the perfect altar for her last morning meal...