Deserted, you lie on bed of dirt,
Alone, neglected, forsaken;
And yet, you seem to feel no hurt
And no offense is taken.
Smothered by fuzz from cottonwood trees,
Pummelled by showers, whipped by wind;
Haunted by vistas of swarming bees,
Dangers without, trepidations within –
And still, you offer on platter of praise
Your juiciest, tastiest, berriest heart;
As soaking up sun in all its rays,
Your bountiful treasure becomes summer’s art.