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

1. “Picking Blueberries,” by Claire Coenen

2. “Peaches” by Adrienne Su

3. “Blackberries” by Mary Oliver