Fragaria × Ananassa

Fields, with their endless opportunity,

sunlight, with its stinging rays,

and my hands,

my own two hands, they

that grip and pull both fruit and vine.


One full basket can be sold,

or kept and eaten,

or left to rot.

What are human matters to a plant?


Lush gardens fling themselves

toward sunlight, with its life,

without my hands.


Nature has no need of human matters,

but we are in Hers.

I eat my fruit in spite of

tasting nothing.


Ripe, full of potential,

guided by those that came before,

they sit in their basket, indifferent to me.

I am the one

that names them.