Atop Strawberry Hill
Wind-rinsed lips enclose
on soft red fruit,
eyelashes falling to sweet-green grass
with strawberry seeds.
Yellow rocky ground,
folded by autumn air,
dehydrated, through time’s passage.
Hands rifle through hay, dry and dusted.
Fingers fall into butterfly sky,
breaking through the fourth dimension.
I was empty on Strawberry Hill,
my mind, an empty saucer,
with tea stains lining its rims
and my soul, its wandering companion,
a forgotten teacup.
Leela Sriram is a freshman in the Creative Writing department at Ruth Asawa SOTA in San Francisco, California. Other than writing, she enjoys gardening and a nice book with some tea to drink.