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.