A poem

July 23, 2015


                  Summer is


     the season of gatherers:


when picking raspberries

I see the world from upside-down


bent over

beneath the
white underbellies
of leaves
for the plump red ones


scratched arms

                                               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


(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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