As
a child I’d walk with Nana and Grampop
on the trails behind
the cabin.
In the heat of summer
we’d find the bushes
laden with tart wild
berries.
We collected them as
we walked,
one for the basket,
one, two for my
mouth.
Dappled sunlight fell
on our faces and hands
as Nana exhorted me
to restraint
during the harvest,
“We have sugar and
cream
back in the cabin.”
As a child I’d watch
Mom-mom
stir the boiling
elderberries
Pop-pop had gathered
for jam.
I watched him squeeze
the cooled berries
through the
cheesecloth,
the purple-black
juice tracing
the veins on his
forearms.
I once asked to have
some berries
before they went in
the pot,
“No, girl. They’ll
give you a bellyache.
They need the heat.”
As a woman I moved to
the woods
with my husband and
children.
I remembered the wild
berries,
searched my property
and found none.
I called the berries
in the wilderness.
They did not answer.
There were sour
years,
Years of pain and
quarrel,
Years of heat and
squeezing,
Years when I so
desperately wished
I could speak with my
grandparents,
the men and women who
had survived
Depression and War
and broken promises.
I wanted
to sit at their feet
and ask,
“Where is the
sweetness?”
In want of quiet and
healing
I returned to the
wooded paths,
inhaled the piney
air,
let the brook water
wash my toes,
dried my feet on the
moss,
listened to the
birdsong,
warmed my face in the
leaf-filtered sunlight.
When my heart was at
rest
the berries were
waiting for me.
They whispered,
“We have come.
We are here,
wild
and free.”
12 comments:
I hope this is similar to a poem that my grandson might write someday.
Love this connection with nature.
Really nice. Thank you.
I went blueberry picking last week. There is something quite healing and memory-evoking in berry picking. I think your poem is perfect.
Nicely done! I feel the same way about the ocean.
Very nice. Nothing quite like discovering some wild berries. Even in the city, we'd occasionally come upon some when we were kids. I particularly recall with fondness finding both raspberries and blackberries growing in a trash-strewn vacant lot behind a liquor store in Dorchester, our Boston neighborhood. Delicious, and certainly better for us than the candy with which we usually filled our maws.
Three days since I first read the post.
I'm at a loss for compliments.
About all I can say is I really like it.
Oh that is beautiful. :)
Oh, that's lovely. Perfect metaphor.
This is fantastic. It tells your story so well, my friend.
Love this connection with nature.
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we'd occasionally come upon some when we were kids. I particularly recall with fondness finding both raspberries and blackberries growing in a trash-strewn vacant lot behind a liquor store in Dorchester, our Boston neighborhood. Delicious, and certainly better for us than the candy with which we usually filled our maws.
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