—Interlude by Amy Lowell, from Pictures of the Floating World (1919)

A quiet love poem. I enjoy Amy Lowell’s poetry, in general, but the imagery here—of strawberries, needlework, and the moon—feels a little like home right now.

It’s coming up to strawberry season again…the prices are dropping, and the fruits are getting massive. I remember reading, in a copy of Farmer’s Almanac that Dad brought from a trip to the U.S, that Native Americans gave each full moon in the year a name. Full Strawberry Moon is actually the name for June’s moon, but since we’re getting strawberries now, it’s my Strawberry moon month.

I love strawberries. The story is that my mom wanted to eat strawberries when she was pregnant with me. No idea whether that’s actually true, but it may explain my voracious love for the plump berries. Though broccoli makes me wild, too, and I don’t recall Mum ever wanting to eat broccoli during a pregnancy. Besides, that’s not a very romantic before-you-were-born story, is it? “Your mother wanted to eat nothing but broccoli when she was carrying you, and you looked just like one when you were born; that’s why you have curly green hair…and smell a little funny.”