bad strawberries

i don’t understand  why the strawberries in my fields go bad they wilt on their vines, as sweetness turns sour in the sun

i don’t understand  why my tears fall for them like summer rain that never  reaches the thirsty roots, below

everyone walks past my fields  without a glance they don’t care how my body aches from working the rows

they don’t care that  every ripe berry was grown with the hope that they might taste the sweetness

i’ve given the first harvest— placed the ripest in their hands— let the juices stain my body— yet, they don’t care

i don’t understand why my fields wither the berries turn black on their stems because no one stops to taste them