On Wings Of Geese
When summer flies off with the geese,
it’s time to start picking blackberries.
It seems like I’ve been picking them,
blackberries that is, my whole life.
Dad would stick me on his shoulder –
he’d pick berries on the lower vines,
and I’d eat whatever I could reach.
He’d say, Are you picking or eating.
And I’d say, I’m picking and eating.
Then he’d say “OK. We’re moving,”
and I’d wrap my arms around his
forehead, and hold on tight.
His skin was warm and tanned, and
he smelled like ripe blackberries.
And now I’m here picking berries
from the same vines, same churchyard —
although there are a few more
tombstones in it now. Dad passed
many years ago, but I keep repeating
what he started when I was young,
and when my fingers stain blue with
blackberry juice, I know summer’s
left on the wings of geese.
for Miz Quickly’s Interview #1