“Take all you want,” my neighbor said.
as we drove in his old golf cart to the far corner
of the farm where they grew beneath the power lines.
They hung heavy and gleaming from thorny stems
that rose into the sky or hung in tangled brambles
that wound in twists to the ground. I had to move slowly
and carefully as I reached for one after another,
planning the trajectory of my hand’s travel,
thorns finding my bare arms anyway, and
me not caring at all, a few scratches seeming
a small price to pay for such rare treasures.
Red-winged blackbirds and robins called from the trees
at the property’s edge, the breeze from them licking
my face as the high sun blinded me and burned
my skin. But the berries were jewels, nearly
falling into my hand as I touched them, making
a soft plumping sound as I gently dropped them
into my bowl, and I kept on until I got them all,
every last perfectly ripe one. A few, of course,
went straight to my watering mouth as well.
Some of them are frozen now, and will wait
until Christmas to be made into pie. And some
became jam and glisten from the centers
of thumbprint butter cookies, a gift of thanks
and gladness for my neighbor, the very least
that I could give in exchange for the gift
of this memorable hour.