Note: My classmate and “virtual resident poet” sent me a perfect poem for summer berries. Since I will be traveling this week-end and have little access to the Internet, she saved the day! I hope to post one more recipe before I leave for New England.
Red raspberries grew around my mother’s surround,
instead of barberry bushes like one neighbor,
fortified with stickers,
who conspired to keep children and pets from coming through
or another with a see-through fence
to view all our goings on, while
Mother’s impress was raspberries free for the picking,
not conflicted with anger or duress
but hanging from skyhooks instead.
Black raspberries grow in a patch near our back door,
luscious but indifferent to our separate touch,
some years hard to find through drought and rain
much like our internal goings-on;
will scratch with dispatch, but leave a lasting impression
on our tongues.
Blackberries, so appetizing to look at,
grow around our pond,
a curse to our clothing,
adverse to our picking
their barbs ripping across our fingers,
draw blood rather than release berries
for their safe keeping.
On our appointed trail,
we can’t rush by the wine berries,
lush and ripe that almost derail us,
only a finger touch
before they’re mush in our mouth.