Long baked beneath the
sun,
Like piece of clay in sculptor’s
hand,
Till satisfied it’s
done.
Small dusty clouds kicked by bare
feet,
With each step that is
taken,
Our destination known by
heart,
Our purpose not
mistaken.
Around a bend, then straight
ahead,
Blackberry patch in
view,
With berries plump and sweet to
tongue,
Still wet with morning
dew.
One for the pail, one for our
mouth,
So picking was quite
slow,
Not stopping till our buckets
filled,
To almost
overflow.
The sun now higher in the
sky,
Warmed ground
beneath our feet,
So that we hurried down the
path,
Almost as in
retreat.
No taste on earth to compare
to,
A homemade berry
pie,
Made with berries, all hand
picked,
Made ripe by summer
sky.
Years later I returned
again,
To seek the place I’d
known,
Faint path was all that still
remained,
Where berry patch had
grown.
For change had come with berries
gone,
A row of houses
there,
Nothing left but
memories,
Of what was picked with
care.
© 2004 Loree (Mason)
O’neil
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