Poem July 2019
Pulling Up the Wild Blackberry Bushes
seems ungrateful but they’re too plentiful
crowding the precious patch of sun
meant for the Heritage Red Raspberry
that cost $16.
So it’s a matter of hubris that we jerk up
those lesser cousins before they bloom
drag them over nubile grass and
toss their torn briars into fire.
Yet when I get to the last bush, I stop
remember how in August I needed
more fruit to nestle around the scant
peaches in my cobbler.
The berries were small but their juice
tasted of mulled wine, piquant but
not too tart, the grace note of a last-minute
potluck, others cooed for the recipe.
So I lay aside the shovel, knowing that
this last bush, cane too tender for thorns,
might one day be our savior
if the raspberry turns to dust.
— Ashley Memory