Berry Patch

 

Behind old closed Bauer Oil Company
lay a field too overgrown for most,
untended by long gone owners,
but treasured by me;
though only in high summer.

Clad in denim and long sleeve flannel,
defying the cruel sun
to avoid stickers and skeeters,
I would venture forth,
entangled within branches of thorns.

Armed with my big plastic bucket, 
unwieldy in the carry,
dragging unstuck from branches
behind me as I trudged
to my intended destiny.

Turning back the lush shadowing foliage were berries,
vast bounty of black raspberries,
clusters each with plump red-black ripeness,
and others white, turning to pink, 

beckoning to return soonest to another ripe crop.

I would meander through with glee,
my secret treasure unknown here right in town.
I’d pick and taste, pick and taste,
fingers purple ,pleasuring mouth with a sour sweetness,
savoring the ambrosia of my forage.

The bucket full, wiping sweated forehead,
I’d trundle home, hoping not to be discovered,
by prying neighbors wanting to know
the what and where of my bounty.
I’d slip inside and shed soaked skin to coolness

After brief respite it was time.
Separating unripened berries and wayward leaves out,
berries measured into bowls and bags, destined for pies and crisps,
others frozen to another day’s enjoyment,
my journey was both satisfying and annual rite of passage.

My “ownsomeness” while privately rewarded
was passed forward ,sharing efforts to thankful friends
and reaping reward for that charity,
while keeping to myself this custodianship.

holding to kindred spirit with my private earth.

For such a small thing
this berry picking lives beyond, 
so that Bauer being long razed,
And the property now new City Hall,
The memory still causes salivation.