A poem

July 23, 2015

 

                  Summer is

 

     the season of gatherers:

 

when picking raspberries

I see the world from upside-down

 

bent over
                peering

beneath the
white underbellies
of leaves
for the plump red ones

 

scratched arms
                           reaching

                                               past prickling canes

- grasping fruit -
dangling like a earrings on a

                                               lovely lady

 

too soft: fingers stained with red mash
too hard: a pale pink nub and a resistant pluck
just right: crimson clusters sweetly slip from the white pith

 

!plump perfection!

 

the mouldering or half-eaten ones fall to the ground

with a quick

         finger-flick

(nature’s share)

for birds
              and rabbits

                                  and bugs.

 

a bowlful of raspberries

rinsed in cool water
& sitting at the counter
lasts only until noticed
by busy boys passing through

on their way

to bike
            to swim

                          to play

to gather memories

from a summer perspective.

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