As I study the berries this spring, I announce to my husband that, for some reason, the strawberries look diminished. But the blackberries and blueberries, which typically lack that flourishing, abundant look to then, thrive.
It’s a different year, with a different yield. Who knows what conditions account for the change?
I simply remember that each season bears its own fruit. I don’t predict or control the harvest. I just plant and nurture and celebrate what comes forth.
And I dream of crepes and pies.