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| Saturday, October 13, 2007 |
| Wild Berry Jam |
We used to pick them in my backyard, along the railroad tracks.
We would venture with little wooden weaved baskets lined with paper towels.
We would pick and sing, laugh, tell stories.
We rinsed them in glacier water.
Our fingers stained purple and red with the juice of berries.
They don't remember anymore.
They were but small boys.
But, they love the stories.
We venture along boardwalks framed by bushes.
We witness the splashing otter eating his lunch.
We eat our own lunches on blankets beneath the shade of a great pine tree.
Upon a cliff we can see far across the horizon, flat with ocean.
We hear the spouting of whales, and watch as they leave prints of their passing.
The air is crisp and clean.
Our baskets full, we wander home.
They don't remember now.
Only the stories. |
posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 9:02 PM  |
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