“I’d Call Myself A Fool To Ask For More.”

Still.
Sweet.
I’ve got strawberry runners inside of me.
Even in the cold.
Even in the snow.
When I’m alone —
strawberry runners all the same.
Ripe and easy.
Red and pleasing.
Never rotting, spoiled, or dead.
In the summer sun,
in the field of what’s done,
that has to be
enough.

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