I wrote poems once
About blackberry picking with my children.
They were lovely.
The children, too,
When they were sleeping.
I thought about those poems
When I was stomping teasel and milkweed
In the field behind the barn
With my big green muck boots
So that I could get to ripe berries.
Alone.
Hawk dueting
With the two little goats.
You have to wonder why
In such a moment
That you would work and sweat
For two measly quarts of free berries.
When I was younger
It was not unusual
To get proposals of marriage
For cobblers and cakes and dumplings
From old men who were already married.
Two quarts down.
Several to go.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 6:58 PM UTC
I wrote poems once
About blackberry picking with my children.
They were lovely.
The children, too,
When they were sleeping.
I thought about those poems
When I was stomping teasel and milkweed
In the field behind the barn
With my big green muck boots
So that I could get to ripe berries.
Alone.
Hawk dueting
With the two little goats.
You have to wonder why
In such a moment
That you would work and sweat
For two measly quarts of free berries.
When I was younger
It was not unusual
To get proposals of marriage
For cobblers and cakes and dumplings
From old men who were already married.
Two quarts down.
Several to go.
