The Strawberries We Seek
a poem to capture my love of fruit foraging
Welcome to Pocketful of Prose, a community for sharing stories. As always, links are in bold, and there’s an audio of this pocket if that works better for your life. If you kindly shared my pockets during the month of June and would like me to send you some lupine seeds, please write lupine in the comments. It would make me so happy to share some gorgeous purple lupine with you, so don’t be shy. Today’s pocket is short and sweet. I have an original poem for you about strawberry picking with my daughter Anna and her friend. At the end of the post, I’ve also included some links to a few of my favorite poems about fruit foraging.
Please stick around after the poetry reading for a conversation in the comments. What resonates with you? What is your favorite poem about fruit? Do you love foraging for food as much as I do?
The Strawberries We Seek
It is peak picking season in Eastern Washington
The fields are full of dark leafy plants, tiny white flowers
and mounds of strawberries
We are in the days of the Strawberry moon
when all of summer’s promises are at our fingertips
ripe for the picking
Anna’s friend, Alina, is visiting from Albuquerque, a promise fulfilled
The days are as sacred as the berries
as time always is when spent in the company of an old friend
Alina wants to go picking, so we do, and as we drive on the country back roads
we roll down the windows and sing
“Strawberry Fields Forever”
and when that is done, Anna suggests we put on Stars, Into Our Bedroom After the War
Out the window, the golden canola fields dance and wave in the wind
We float on a sea of gold
everything bright and beautiful
When we arrive at the strawberry farm, two large arrows point to the fields.
“You can pick in one of two fields,” the farmer tells us.
One where the fruit is larger, prettier, better for photographing
or you can go to the field where the berries will break in your hands…
We grab a basket and run
in search of imperfect fruit
filling our shirts, our basket, our bellies
with a sweetness not meant to be saved
When the basket is full, the girls play cornhole
and we picnic next to a big, red barn
Before we know it, it’s time to drop Alina at the airport
I hug Alina and then get back in the car to let the girls say goodbye
My tears surprise me
In the rearview mirror, I can see the girls embrace
Alina’s eyes are closed and her head rests on Anna’s shoulder
She is leaving, and yet in Anna’s arms
she looks so at home
and it wrecks me
this sweetness that can’t be saved
“There’s a part of myself I can only be with her,” Anna says,
the scent of strawberries lingering
“I know,” I say, resting my hand on hers,
the canola fields waving behind us
We drive home full of memories
the soft berries splitting in our hands
the juice dripping down our fingers
the tenderness that breaks us open
We drive home knowing
we will make the same choice every time
We will always choose the fruit that breaks us open
A few fruit foraging favorites
This "pocket" makes me want to keep clicking that heart button until a zillion red hearts fill the page! Like those imperfect strawberries filled your bellies and your hearts perfectly. <3 <3 <3...
Love this pocket and your stories of how friendship and deep connection break us open. It’s not a foraging poem, but your post celebrating fruit reminded me of William Carlos Williams poem “This is Just to Say” about eating the illicit plums in the icebox. So many interpretations, but I remember my high school self thinking Poetry.Is.Awesome.