Toro Tokuda

There is no taste I associate more
With you, your lips, your laugh, and our mornings.
’Tis true, coffee holds a certain allure,
For us most of all; we be ruling kings.

The air still except your melodious hum.
Strawberries, your smile, your hand lay over mine.
A dozen mornings, a hundred more come;
If every one the same, infinitely fine.

Let us plant a garden: full, lush, and green;
Let us nurture the seedlings together:
Field speckled red like the world never seen.
No matter what the world throws us, we weather.

I stand with my fiddle, your voice weaving song.
Home: strawberry fields, our souls entwined long.