Dewberry Cobbler
"Caleb, go fetch me some dewberries from the fence row," Momma says,
as I polish off my Saturday morning breakfast. "I'll make us a cobbler."
She stands in her humble kitchen, the light of a country morning dawns
on her face. She's beautiful. I'd be happy to walk a hundred miles to
fetch her berries, or anything else. She hands me an old milk carton
with the top cut out of it. I burst out the door, running for the fence row
with the dog close behind. "And watch for snakes," she hollers after me.
As I round the edge of the 40 acre soybean field, I take the time to thank
God my dad doesn't have me hoeing weeds out of it.
toes peek out
from the canvass sneakers –
milk mustache
The dewberry vines meander beneath the line of fencing in between
the posts. I poke the undergrowth with my walking stick, trying to shoo
out any snakes! The berries ripen early this year in the Arkansas heat
wave. The stickers get me good where my big toe pokes out, I wince.
It’s too late now to go back for boots. The berries are real ripe and juicy,
staining my fingers as I drop them into the jug. “Two for me and one for
Momma,” I laugh and a passing Jay mimics with a caw.
Momma's call
carries down the row
stomach growls
Poets: Caleb Smith & Debbie Guzzi
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