Saturday, October 06, 2007
Strawberries Ripe poem)
Strawberries Ripe
Whatever you have done
in this world,
whether you carried
each day heavily,
like a plate of fish
on which
only the skeleton
and scales
remain,
bound for the discard
already
almost
before the meal has begun,
or whether
you awoke joyously,
crying,
yes, this is the day
the orchard is ready,
the strawberries
ripe for plucking--
whichever way
you greeted your life,
put on it your special stamp,
that day will remain forever,
part of the great mind,
the memory of
how it is
to live on this earth,
with its many
hollows and hills,
its constant rippling
up and down
across the changing surfaces,
carrying us always
to the next
destination,
another arrival.
Dorothy Walters
October 5, 2007
