The original flowers are gone. Only one or two brave Columbines struggle through the broad strawberry leaves.
The berries fill the raised bed and tumble over the edges. They send out long runners which turn in to new plants that take root and grow anywhere they can find a bit of soil.
I've filled troughs and flower pots with baby plants. I've given plants to ALL my neighbors. I've dug plants up and thrown them away. (That breaks my heart!)
I've run out of straw and have started making newspaper 'blankets' on which the berries rest. I think I can safely say, I've got my money's worth out of those three tiny plants!
I must admit, I am delighted with my patch. Strawberries are in my DNA. When my dad was a boy he lived on a farm in Tennessee. One of his chores was to help harvest strawberries. Grandpa grew cotton and strawberries as cash crops. When the strawberries grew large and fat, they were in great demand in the markets. When the strawberries were small, there was no demand for them and most of the crop would be wasted. Those were the years that my dad could have his fill of strawberries. He always told me the little ones were the best to eat. You know what? He was right!