Archive
06/29/10 - (2)
Gathering
About fifteen miles from Lake Nebagamon Nearly seven miles northeast of Brule, Lies Johnson's Berry Patch, in Oulu, Wisconsin, Where, for an ethereal, breeze-riffled hour or two, Under the radiant warmth of an in-the-high-sixties sun, I reveled in the slow-motion joy of handpicking strawberries, Luxuriated in my communion with freedom.
For those precious, private moments of timeless gathering, As I sat on the straw-strewn sand, Between row upon row of succulent plenitude, My left hand pressing back the leafy stems, Exposing those clusters of bright-red-ripe fruits, Which my right hand carefully snapped from their stems, Gingerly placing them in a waxed carton,
I felt so close to the ground, So attuned to its rhythms, textures, fragrances, sounds, I believed I could hear those strawberries Growing, breathing, reaching out to touch my fingers, Caress the flesh of my arms, Share with me the intimate secrets of their earthy heritage, And I spoke, to them, in their ancient mother tongue.
06/29/10 - (2)
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