Surrounded by prickers, thorns
tugging on my coat, my jeans
lowering myself to the dark small fruit
gathering in, berry by sweet tart wet berry
scratches growing, a burgundy stain
on eager fingertips
A family of five, with pails and bowls,
short on patience, gatherers as of old
of a simpler, primal age,
finding food in the wild, untamed,
uncultivated, natural state
crouched in the blackberry bramble
collecting tiny gems, tasty pearls
swatting at mosquitoes that stalked us
watching for the safety, the whereabouts
of younger, fitful pickers, eager for fruit,
not the quest, the search, under leaves,
under branches, the clusters hidden
shrouded from the view, sight of less tenacious
Gather them in, them all in, for the pie
the reward we seek, at the end of the work
the true fruits of our labors.
by Raymond A. Foss
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