Many summers ago, in Iowa’s July heat, we spent a day.
Sun baking my freckled skin, I knelt in the wild strawberry patch.
My friend nearby, reminding me when I wearied, of the promise.
As night came, and we were back to our Illinois homestead,
we set the table with whipped topping centermost.
With growl inducing scents of batter to steam
from the waffle iron, we started losing our cool.
Sitting at the table, holding holds for grace,
we were indeed grateful for our day,
Ending with strawberry waffles.
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