One early morning in mid June
while she slept soundly in her bed,
white linen crumpled in a heap,
cased pillows crushed about her head;
he crept downstairs and out the door.
He walked the fields to Turner's farm,
where with his fingers lithe and strong
he picked plump fruit, his thoughts still warm.
Yet she content in wedded bliss,
in peaceful sleep, quite unaware
that breakfast berries, ripe and red
he'd gather while she rested there.
Each chosen at it perfect best
with tenderness he made the choice
and with the passing of the years
he still recalled her sleepy voice,
as she awoke to greet the day.
To taste the sweetness on her tongue
of berries rinsed with loving care,
back in the days when they were young.
Now pyramids soon disappear
as teenage children dive in first.
Quick Dad swoops in to save for her
then fondly winks for days gone past.