Ophelia May Rose
Idol of lovers. Muse of artists. Seducer of kings.
One summer morning, I staggered in the door from a long, hot run along the river, washed a bowl full of strawberries, and ate them standing at my kitchen sink. The quiet focus from my exhaustion made their red granules shine more vibrantly in the dawning sunlight, their sticky juice roll more thrillingly down my hands, and their ripe flesh, salted with the sweat on my lips, taste sweeter than any strawberries have tasted since.
Rose of May, Red Maple of November