I am dreaming today of the farm far away
When I was a boy and life had just begun,
How nothing could match that strawberry patch
With fruit ripe for picking out under the sun.
The pickers, all women, wore gloves without fingers,
Dark ankle-length dresses and sunbonnets, too,
And sat around chatting until warming sunshine
Had dried up most of the sparkling dew.
We youngsters made boxes from soft damp wood panels
Shipped flat, scored and measured to bend, hold and tack.
Each picker took several on flat tray with handles
And knelt on the straw with its white narrow track.
The pickers crawled out till the green patch was covered
With low-bending figures like scarecrows blown down
While berries they picked were “mosquito-bar” covered
To wait for the buggies and surries from town.
We children ate berries, our lips and tongues reddened,
With fingers as rosey as pink dawns of June.
Around us were blowing the soft winds of summer
While song birds fed young ones and sang us a tune.
Inside Mother’s kitchen the wood stove was glowing
As sugared red berries cooked, simmering low,
While fresh loaves were baking and spreading aroma
Up from the full oven directly below.
Long after the evening sun paled with its setting
The oil lamp burned on with a soft, yellow glow,
As Mom melted wax to seal the red harvest
To open when winter was swirling with snow.
Published in Neighborhood Ideals