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On the Picking of Strawberries

Updated on April 12, 2013

On the Picking of Strawberries

Our picking pail is full, my son

With ripe and green and past their prime;

I'm not quite certain what we've done

And what has happened to the time.


In cents per pound we're lunatics

To pay the same for sweet and sour.

Let's say our eyes were playing tricks,

And blame it on the darkling hour.


How else describe the magic sense

Of things as they were meant--

Or how it made a difference

In being indifferent?


The pragmatist could not appraise

The worth of things so seen--

As though before created days,

Like Being before it's been.


Yet that's how fresh the berries seemed--

Or so they did to you.

And their so seeming did redeem

The old and make it new.


Joseph Pedulla


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