Local Berries

I've always been easily seduced by strawberries

It is strawberry season in Maine. Brief, fleeting, sweet. I had another post planned for today, but then I remembered

Nelly Bryce

’s post from last Sunday asking us to consider poetry about food. I read her follow-up post this morning and all the lovely verse she shared about favorite foods, from William’s cold plums to odes on peaches, coffee and mangos. Having just eaten far more than my share of the local berries purchased yesterday, I thought perhaps a post about strawberries would be more timely.

I love strawberries. My birthday is coming up so I’ve always assumed that my birthdate and  my insatiable appetite for the sweet, delicate, local berries must be linked. I was born under a strawberry moon. I was also born to parents who lived just down the street from a strawberry farm. If my mother could read this, she would roll her eyes and make an acerbic comment about foxes and henhouses.

The poem below was written this morning, so don’t judge it too harshly. Instead, maybe try writing one of your own love poems to a favorite food. If you do, be sure to tag both me and

Nelly Bryce

so we can read it.

I’ll leave you now with the poem while I get back to the strawberries.

---

Local Berries

I cannot apologize for eating 
the strawberries
you were saving for dessert

I am not sorry for eating them
because I know that I love them
better than you or perhaps anyone else 

I hear your anger, though, on the phone
with Mrs. Wagner, asking if there 
are any more berries for sale today

And I know what her answer must have been
when you place the money in my hand 
and point up the road

I trudge along the roadside, swatting 
at mosquitos and stepping into the weeds
when the pick-up trucks bomb past

A half mile later I arrive at the farm.
Mrs. Wagner does not smile as she accepts
the two damp, crumpled dollars
and two hot quarters from my hand

I have the sense she does not like me
but how could a seller of strawberries
not like her best customer

I try a shy smile but she just pushes
the last square green box across
the picnic table toward me and 
turns back to the farmhouse

Thank you, I say. But she doesn't hear,
the screen door has already slammed

I start home, zigzagging across the road
to stay as much in the shade of trees as possible. 

I am less than halfway there
when I choose the topmost berry in the box.

I grasp it by the hull and blow on it to remove 
a bit of sandy soil. It is warm from the field, 
and all it takes is the pressure of my tongue
to crush it against the roof of my mouth

I pick another. I'll just have a few
on the walk home.You won't miss 
just a few, and there will still 
be plenty for dessert.

---

Thanks for reading, everyone. If it’s strawberry season where you are, don’t waste any more time here! 🍓💕