Procrastination by Strawberries

I am having trouble attending to my Nanowrimo duties today.  It has a lot to do with having nothing to write ... or too many possible ideas ...  and being unable to commit to any of them.  In the course of doing some research anmong old novel starts and other writing, I came across this poem written about 5 years ago.

I still like strawberries at 70 by the way.

barbara's strawberries

today i ate
strawberries
savoring their fresh
red.

heather reminded me
i should be thinking about Wednesday,
poetry and
strawberries.

my unblocking book tells me to face
my inadequacies, my fears,
my fears of inadequacy.
so i am.
the memory
on my tongue of those
strawberries.

thoughts intrude
quite unsuitable to
strawberries
especially
at my age.

in two months, an old
age pensioner, and
strawberries
just another high
fibre food.

better than prunes, i suppose:
strawberries.

strawberries,
the birthmarks, are aberrant, but
wrinkled prune faces are
simply ubiquitous.

cast my mind back to the sixties
to other, wilder
strawberries.

bergman's. and
those given to me
by children with stained hands.

so many hours spent picking
enough wild
strawberries
to make a single jar of jam
a gift of love.

later domesticated
strawberry
patch in kinburn
baskets and baskets
filled counters, freezers, jam jars,
became my spending money
like hagar's eggs.

ripe then, fecund,
milk leaking from breasts whose
strawberry
nipples brought joy.

now other things are supposed to
like poems about
strawberries.

clear now, the origin of
the raspberry.
that snort of derision
should have been called
the strawberry.