Blackberries
I am astonished
by the skepticism
as they walk past
this abundance.
At the edge of the meadow,
the nice young couple
afford me an overly
generous berth,
an eccentric old man
in a funny hat, bent
picking wild blackberries,
a mess for my wife's
breakfast. Berries, berries,
everywhere berries,
who wouldn't covet
these berries flying plump
on vines, irresistible,
these roly-poly cherubs?
In their indifference,
these two could not know
that with this plethora,
daring the pricks of thorns,
I am ecstatic in nostalgia:
Fifty years ago,
my aunts would stop
their day for berries.
In her flowered cotton dress,
Aunt Martha gathered
cousins, pails, and
Grandpa's dog, Henry,
to make a morning of it,
chatting happily,
scheming preserves,
pies, cobblers, crisps,
blackberry jam spread
over warm bread,
a poignant memory
of a ripe summer day
in the heart of winter.
