The Red At the End of Gold
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I was a happy fruit farmer, growing delicious, healthy fruits for consumption.
Since we'd bought the farm ten years prior, all the family lent to its function.
It was a large, productive farm, and we ran it with our extended, fine family,
As pretty bluebirds of vivid sunset, are homeward bound to their family tree.
We all had our cozy, separate houses, but came together every working day,
As hilltop blooms gather each sunrise, sensing the luster coming their way!
Our farm produced several fruit varieties, but not my favorite, strawberries,
Which aren't true fruits, but nuts, like a shocker that may end some stories.
We toiled hard through sweet seasons, our labors, pardon the pun, fruitful,
And evenings or weekends, we went to town, to moonlight tweets, tuneful.
I also had chums my own age, who toiled on the neighboring, family farms,
Like a constant toil of emerald greenery, to wrap all earth in natural charms.
We hit the pretty town at orange sunset, and sometimes at fiery sunset red.
There we laughed, danced and unwound, before going home to fluffy beds.
Just outside my 2nd floor bedroom window, stood a pretty, red sugar maple.
Sometimes I enjoyed a view of it and of wandering sunset, when I was able.
When I put a hand outside of the window, the ruby leaves were in my reach,
And I'd often sit and birdwatch, as imperial red sunshine seemed to beseech.
One evening, I noticed something different, as I fondled the rose red leaves,
Like the strange sounds you might hear, when wind whistles through leaves!
To my perfect delight and wonder, I found that the growth was a strawberry,
And my happy taste buds discerned the same, but I was dreaming, surely?
But it was no delicious dream, I found as I ate my fill, of maple strawberries,
Like trees get their fill of the green dance, whenever there is steady breeze.
Jonquil day followed memorable glad day, with its ensuing dreamy sunshine,
Still the evenings' magic lingered, and only showed itself in the sunset time!
Delicious, rich strawberries, always so ripe, melt in the mouth, honey sweet,
Gift of the gorgeous, fleeting evening, and the transient season's rosy treat.
It has been years since my wondrous find, and still I've kept my tasty secret,
As having the press converge upon my tree, is a thing I know I would regret.
And some wild joys are meant to be public, while some of them are private,
Like the private one I've kept with me, of the times I have tasted the sunset!
Copyright © Evelyn Judy Buehler | Year Posted 2022
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