Episteme

The discussion in the mountains turns
To fresh-picked strawberries. Too much work.
These aren’t quite ripe enough. They should be

Sweeter, to be perfect. They’re not sour.
They’re just bland. We’ll take them anyway.
Do you have a yogurt tub, a bag

Of some kind? A little earlier,
Before the younger persons returned
From the meadow with the colander

Filled with scarlet brilliant strawberries
Nonetheless something less than perfect,
The old pair had been sitting on the deck

That was sagging, rotted in the shade
After too much snow and rain, chatting
About various kinds of knowing,

Skills, and expertise. One had grumbled,
Of years spent solving housing issues,
That it was arcane knowledge of no use

Now, not now, interesting to no one.
The sun shot through the breezy birch leaves.
It’s all like that, the other muttered.