Sometimes I write poetry. This is one of my favorites.
Little Cedar Berry Farm
when freckled, picked berries from a bush
two of them, stationed on paralleled rows
between the full hedges, soft sweet and lush.
Black pups swooned near their necks and birds did crow.
Two sweet children each with a waffled tray
Practiced their skills, dyed their digits to red,
blew back their bangs and dredged aprons of lead.
Around the farm yard bench, the mother bays;
and to all the warm dusk, flirts fearless to be fed
moans for our tawny hands and sweaty heads.
Twelve full quarts they picked. Some berries they ate
then sifted in green boxes, one by one and jostled the rosy nipples of fruit.
Beyond the tall grasses, though nearer the sun
I sat and watched them, yearning to be young.
This is me when I was a young mother with our two darling daughters.
Contact me at Dhcbaldwin@gmail.com or Bumblingbea.com
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