Heavy with fruit
Scratch my reaching arms
Perfectly ripe berries
Drop into my hands
At the slightest touch
Explodes in my mouth
Filling me with joy
Of summers past
Transport me again
One of my favorite things about August is the ripe blackberries. My first memories of blackberries comes from when we lived in Redmond, WA. We had a large green belt behind our house, and the top of the hill leading up to it was filled with blackberry brambles. I remember my friends and I making tunnels through the brambles, and crawling through them the length of several properties. But the best memory of that time was my dad and I going up into the green belt and picking blackberries, which my mom made in to all sorts of wonderful treats.
Later, blackberries became a bittersweet thing. I still loved to pick and eat them, but they meant that summer, as I knew it then, was near to an end.
At camp we would walk through town, and along Washington Highway 2 to the salmon hatchery and pick blackberries there. We’d bring our haul back to camp, and the kitchen staff would make a batch of fresh blackberry ice cream for those of us who picked the berries.
Still, I look forward to the blackberries ripening. My lunchtime walks take me past blackberry vines, which are now loaded with the dark, purple-black fruit. I pick a handful every day while they are ripe, and munch them while I talk to my wife on the phone. Sometimes smacking my lips to try to elicit a response. On the days I drive to to work, I stop at a small park along my route, and pull out a large yogurt container from the back of the car and pick for about 10 minutes, before continuing on home.
The season for blackberries is entirely too short, so I try to enjoy it when I can.