At first I was afraid they were goathead thorns. That’s what we called them, anyway. In El Paso, those suckers were the bane of my existence. If you had the temerity to cut through a field on your bike, you were almost certain to be patching your inner tube by the end of the day. Hard little spiny rocks that would puncture just about anything, and the thing I remember the most was the bright yellow flowers. Cheerful little guys that belie their nasty seed payload.

Nasty, nasty things. Still, there’s hope (organic, no less), if you care to read about such things.
I saw tiny bright yellow flowers all over our yard. I was horribly worried about the state of my children’s feet, but the plants they were attached to didn’t look like the thorn plants. Not to mention that the flowers were a little larger than I remembered. I decided to wait and see.
A few days ago, it all clicked. I was weeding — noble work, weeding — and I saw a little hint of red out of the corner of my eye. I took a closer look, and sure enough we have wild strawberries. All over the place — around the garden, along the french drain, under the bench beneath the mulberry tree. And as we discovered more and more caches of little red fruits, the kids were running around telling each other not to step here or there for fear of crushing our agricultural bounty.
Moira, my darling fruit-bat, is especially excited. Every time we had gone to the store recently, she’s been begging for strawberries. Now, the berries come to her.
Every time I think “wild strawberries” the poem by Shel Silverstein comes to mind. Here’s an abridgment for you, mainly because I don’t want to get nailed by the copyright police:
Are Wild Strawberries really wild?
Will they scratch an adult, will they snap at a child?
Should you pet them, or let them run free where they roam?
Could they ever relax in a steam-heated home?
…And though they may curl up at your feet oh so sweetly,
Can you ever feel that you trust them completely?
…Anyhow, you’ve been warned and I will not be blamed
If your Wild Strawberry cannot be tamed.
A Light in the Attic, Harper & Row, 1981, pg. 66. Many of you will remember that the poem is accompanied by a little illustration of a feral strawberry with razor sharp teeth. So cute.