At noon on the last day of July
I got to pick them. I’ve been waiting
and watching for a couple weeks,
ever since my friend invited me
to help myself. “Nobody here,”
he said, “is going to pick them.”
He drove me around the place
in his golf cart to show me where
they hid. Then we waited.
And today was the day.
A hot one, and dry. The berries
looked like jeweled globes,
and my mouth watered
at the mere thought
of their tart juice exploding
on my tongue. I reached through
the tangles of thorny branches,
watching the ripe ones fall into my hand
at the slightest touch, the sun white
and dazzling in my eyes, birds telling
each other that a woman was down there
picking berries. But she was leaving some.
They made me laugh. I filled my bowl.
“You don’t get to pick wild blackberries
very many times in your life,” I told my friend,
thanking him for the fine adventure.
“Especially at high noon on the very last day of July.”