From the berry patch comes
the sound of a late summer afternoon.
Giggles and a bit of a song...Soon I will
be wiping stained fingers and chins,
purple mouths proudly held up to be
admired.. Buckets half full, but probably
enough for a small pie..Breathing deeply of
this small pleasure of living, I promise
myself I will try to remember these
moments in the cold of a deep winter
morning, when the children are grown
and berry picking a part of another time.
Copyright © Barbara Gorelick