Strawberries, Strawberries, tumbling down.
Strawberries, Strawberries, all here around.
Rosy and blushing, enormous or small,
Our fingers turn pink as we gather them all.
One for the bucket and one for the tongue.
Bushels are gathered before we are done.
One again, two again, three again, four.
Take a flat to the car and come right back for more.
Strawberry kisses and strawberry smiles.
Strawberry breath as we go home, mile by mile.
Strawberry shortcake and strawberry jam.
Strawberry pink stains all over our hands.
Strawberry tops in an old Pyrex bowl.
Ruby red smiles– to the compost they go.
Birds smiling, chuckling, at this fruit they are due.
I wonder, do birds get strawberry breath, too?
Strawberry jam jars, sealing POP! POP! POP! tight.
We hear strawberry cannons going off through the night.
Strawberry jam jars, lined up on the wall,
Sparkling like jewels for when warm turns to fall.
We save just enough of our ruby red haul
To dance on our Cheerios tomorrow, for all
Of us know that the season is briefest, and then,
We wait for the strawberry season, again.
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