Blackberry Missive

by on September 24, 2019 :: 0 comments

July afternoon in Virginia
our father skips lunch
to stride the dry pasture
in work brogues
to that thicket
where blackberries
sprout like purple
polka dots and
wades into the briars
and bees until
sweated out
with knuckles
and forearms bleeding
he’s filled two gallon
buckets. Why?

Because we love cobbler.

One of the things
the war took out of Daddy
you’d have to guess
was trust in saying much.
So what if he never
told me that thing,
I mean what’s the worth
in words when you
can taste it like that?

editors note:

Here’s to “that thing” however we express it. – mh clay

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