Berry picker

I’m eating raspberries and hoping the seeds get stuck in my teeth. They are tart raspberries from California, but not like the raspberries in California that I’m used to. These were shipped off and freezing and I like them warm on the vine behind the garage when my mom would send me out on summer days. I’d pluck the ruby round sweaters and leave the pearl naked body. I’d eat half and put the rest in recycled strawberry baskets to take inside. But then I’d move to the¬†boysenberries, the peaches, the apricots, the yellow pear tomatoes. I’d graze our yard like a deer, slink around with the cats. And no one would be watching.

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4 Responses to Berry picker

  1. Lindsey says:

    Maybe by the time you and Pat go camping, the blueberries will be ripe! :o)

  2. Your post feeds the senses. Since childhood weeks at my grandparents’ farm, summer carries the scent of ripe peaches. Your grazing deer doesn’t stop at the fruit, does she, but goes on to the blossoms as well? Who can blame her. xo

    • rachvb says:

      the blossom, the sticks, I don’t even mind the scratches from the thorns. I kept a lot of bugs company and vice-versa. Mostly the Rollie-Pollies. Spin them around in my palm like beads or rocks. I hope they didn’t get dizzy. Life as one big carnival.
      Your grandparent’s farm sounds lovely. I can see the light through the trees. xoxo

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