Memories of strawberries

Wild strawberries — I try to let them grow — reminds me of long ago.

Us kids would pick pails full — so very good, you know.

Now out behind my house a bird sings. He flies to the big spruce trees and back again. He sits on his house and sings so hard. “Where is my mate? She was in my yard.”

Soon the peonies will bloom — smell better than perfume. Then the golden rod — so tall — Indian paintbrush, milkweed, clovers, and birdsfoot trefoil. Makes you so you don’t want to mow at all.

You say they’re weeds. I don’t think so. That’s why I love to see them grow.

The fireflies are cut in two. You think differently than I do. Give them a chance; just try. You’ll see, I won’t be alone, just me.