Our strawberry orchard expands as vast as the seas, married in barbed roots and tea-berry-stained fingertips. Twinkling starlight reshapes the greenery come February to June. For generations, they ever-bloom; yet, the rest of the world carries on in tendon, settled in their own miniature domes.

Sunlight pools on the hardwood floor. Matted in old wear, dust bunnies nestled with their young in the corners. At night, moths scurry to life– once-believed wallpaper sleeves tap against the glow of basement windows, fleeting drawn without notice. Soon will wither like the wilting poppies, hand-churned vases.

Our strawberry orchard whistles for the trees to bend their limbs when it storms. They bury our mudded footprints with earth’s fading cry. The seas swell by the borders, a beating pulse reserved for dawn-tide. Then, they quiet to the morning dove’s song. Rain from last spring still lingers. These moments, easily missed under back-breaking scorch, our harvests reserve for more than wild lands.

This was written by our contributing writer, Claire Kroening.