You have to get right down on your stomach –

Prostrate in the tall grass – watch your eyes!
The wind can grab one blade, blind you before you’ve even begun
To gather, wait a while
It will take some time
Before you are able to see those tiny red orbs
Hiding in clumps beneath the familiar triad
Of shiny green leaves. Once you’ve adjusted your perspective,
You realize you’re in the thick of them,
The ones already crushed beneath you, the ones
Growing warm in the sun, a scent you want to dab
On your most holy places.
You must curb your excitement –

They are so easily mashed between thumb and finger,
Never to landing your basket. To calm yourself,
Think, on your relations with your neighbor, your lover,
The challenge of community, anything but
This bounty of red encircling you.
Eventually, after a very long time, if your mouth
Hasn’t intercepted your hand too often,
Your basket is modestly full, and you rise up
Out of the tall grass, ready for another round of all of the aforementioned.
They are so hard to find, so inconvenient to gather.
There may be nothing, nothing sweeter some swear, if you just get there
Before spider, chipmunk, sun , or your very own distractions
Prevent this meeting of flesh and fruit and field.
Finally, carry your basket home, spoon into bowls
For yourself and whoever happens to drop by in this most holy moment
The treasure for which you bent so low, which was waiting there
Even as you came crawling on your belly
Towards the grace in unexpected places.
© 2001, 2003 Claudia Schmidt - Pragmavision Publishing