Strange to see, at this time of dead things

Among the ragged, tattered, ravaged

Less than semi-verdant growth

The jagged leaves, all frostbit, hanging down askew

Some twisted, blackened, others crisply brown

But most — despite the stern December chill

Sly sleet, black ice, sudden flakes of snow —

Alive still, greenish still, though drooping low

And . . . in among the flaccid down-turned growth

Boldly thrust out on tiny upcurved stem,

Flanked by two tiny bright green leaves

One pretty wild white strawberry! perfect

Perfect now (but how?) on ancient fraise de bois

Not fruiting much of late, those berry plants,

the white one or the red, despite some care

Not much fruit, even in June's warmth, long past now

Today, a sudden shaft of sunlight

Homed in upon the half-cracked pot

Spotlit this one small errant berry,

Which without thinking I just plucked

With its slim stem, its pair of little leaves

And will consume tonight — may not

Be sweet, of course, despite its perfect form

But that, of course, is not the point