my slow growing strawberry

My slow growing strawberry squatting full sun,
leaves curled and brown like burnt paper, is dying.
He unpockets two berries at the base of a bud,
and they fall from his hand like little red thistles.

I can hear him whisper, what is he saying?
What is that he is saying? It must be important.
I lean in and my cheek brushes his paper palms.
But what can a man say? What can I say?

There comes a thundercloud stately from the west.
Gentle, she also listens. Sad, she also touches his hands.
And I awaken to her soft reverb of thunder,
her delicate flashes of light, her well-wrought reply.