Picking
the blueberries are ripe again, not many this seasonour patch overtaken by larches and such
the bushes are still green-leaved yet barren
not so different from most of us
go pick a cup
Mom would say, while peeling, apron on
paring knife moving at suppertime speed
here, near the cabin, quick
my brother’s ears perking, always ready for Dumplings
I’ll make some Buckle, maybe a Grunt
I loved your Squares, whipped waves of egg whites
sweet berries bobbing, in time become fixed
at summer’s end, pail and cup we’d go picking
through Lambkill, through Alders
Labrador Tea a set of small whips
up the winding path to the wild, where
stout woody branches served mass on their sleeves
quiet filled our buckets, bent backs in the light wind
flies keeping busy as fingers plummed
smell of black spruce marked at-ease August
hands deft and breezy winnowing fruit from the stem
here and there, the clay earth opens
brown sugar crumbles, tree roots and foxholes
cascading spills, followed close by crying
always her promise of
more than enough
Ren Pike @sputta grew up in Newfoundland. Through sheer luck, she was born into a family who understood the exceptional value of a library card. Her writing has appeared in NDQ, antilang, Pithead Chapel, and Rabid Oak. When she is not writing, she wrangles data for non-profit organizations in Calgary, Canada.
Banner Image: Path by Robert Frede Kenter.
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