Foragers

My mother, foraging for black raspberries
behind the fish-and-chips restaurant
beside the park where my brother practiced baseball.
My mother, in the late ’70s, her mid-thirties,
like a doe but with a Tupperware container,
reaching for the furthest berries, braving scratches.

Today, I send my daughter ahead to the serviceberry trees
while I hunt for monarch eggs but come away with only
two handfuls of raspberries (red), and even those are superfluous
because we went to the farmers’ market this morning.

When I find her, with her heart-shaped basket almost full
of purple serviceberries, she is aghast to have noticed that
they have hauled away the wood-and-metal playground,
to be replaced soon, I tell her, with rope and plastic.

This is the way of the world, I think. One day,
something important is gone, and no one
bothered to ask you first.
 

Advertisements
Standard

2 thoughts on “Foragers

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s