Concrete now the farmers field,
where we once played together,
Picking warm red strawberries in the sun.  
Here, where we used to search,
for the power of words and ancient mages,
Your tablet of poems diffuse peace to my pocket.
The wind has torn it and the rain has beaten,
Through the frayed binding and tattered pages,
Seeking new life upon those words you wrote.
Yet still I trace your strawberry scented breath,
Well preserved in your long past pen strokes,
Evocative memories of the Strawberry Songs,"
found within the tears with which you wrote.
I go now in further quest of words,
and warm ripe strawberries in the sun.

Through the windows of a passing train,
dawn rain darkens lighter green,
this sudden color of the rain,
In passing fields revived,
Gives me urge to swelling surge,
A salty rain within my eye.

Strung tightly he remains
Like a violin in mating season
And the banal carpet
His two bare feet do stain
Solemnly still he stands
In his kaleidoscopic rain
Until mystery dissolves him.
All in perfect poise somehow.