Poetry Playtime

Because I Wanted Jam

 

I had thought

the gray, overcast morning

would grant me solitude

in the field.

 

But I forgot

how short the season is,

the strawberries being

generous but fleeting —

like a swarm of gnats that

skirts their course as humans approach.

 

And I forgot

how early the young ones rise:

they’ve been up for hours already.

They’re past second breakfast

and have burned through screen time.

 

And they’re all here with me

in the warming field.

Asking is this one ripe

and being told

no not the white tipped ones

 

And being called to over and over

Nina. Nina. Nina come here!

The incessant voice of a mother bird trying to

push the little ones deeper into the nest

on fledging day.