Wayne Orr

In the golden light of early morn,
I wander through fields where strawberries are born.
Rows of green stretch far and wide,
A sea of leaves where sweet treasures hide.

Bending low, I part the leaves so lush,
Revealing ruby gems in a gentle hush.
Each strawberry, a sun-kissed delight,
Their fragrance rising, pure and bright.

With careful fingers, I pluck them free,
Their ripeness bursting, a joy to see.
Some are plump, some small and neat,
Each one a treat, a summer’s sweet.

The warmth of the sun on my back I feel,
As I gather my bounty, my heart full and real.
In these fields of strawberry dreams,
I find a peace that forever gleams.

So here I’ll stay, till the day grows late,
Picking strawberries, embracing fate.
In nature’s embrace, I find my thrill,
In the simple act of picking, time stands still.