Picking Blackberries

At Poetic Bloomings, we are to write about being a child again in the summer…or – roses!

Picking Blackberries
I hated picking wild blackberries as a child –
The tangled canes all of them lethally armed
with sword sharp thorns –
The merciless sun beating down,
the bees and mosquitos buzzing and
the evil skeeters zooming in for nibbles,
the sly snake and then of course –
the ticks…oh.my.gosh. the ticks.
the small wild berries taking forever to fill up buckets
That sweet winey taste on the tongue,
Biting into purple black morsels –
The juice flowing down the tongue
Staining lips and fingers and then back
at Grandma Hayes’ (who didn’t like me)
to sort through and wash and she would
make this crazy rich biscuit dough, roll it out
scatter the berries over, dot with fresh butter
and sprinkle sugar with a liberal hand.
roll it up tight, cut into slices, place close together
in the baking pan…dot with more butter and add more sugar
yhen some water in the pan.
Into that cruelly hot woodstove oven to bake.
When they came out, they were a miracle.
and the other berries, canning or
making preserves from them….
Yesterday I picked blackberries.
Put the buckets into my red hauling wagon
and came home.
Blackberry roll for dessert.
Berries bubbling with sugar getting ready
to be put into preserve jars.
And I still hate picking blackberries.

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