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.


2 thoughts on “Foragers

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