Mulberries in the Piedmont by Bartholomew Barker

stux/pixabay

Mulberries in the Piedmont
by Bartholomew Barker

[author’s site]

From the first snow melt
until my coatless hike,
I’ve walked under this tree
without noticing its mulberries.
I rush to pluck the fruit,
ripened purple over a warm night,
pop juicy morsels in my stained mouth,
gambling on sweet against tart.
A mother starling nags from overhead,
so I leave a few for her hatchlings—
a generosity I now regret.
Mulberry season is precarious—
and a man can’t be held responsible
in these perilous times.

@ Bartholomew Barker

Edgar Allan Poe once wrote: Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words. This is what MasticadoresUSA is committed to bringing to you.

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8 Comentarios Agrega el tuyo

  1. jonicaggiano dice:

    Well I live in the Piedmont my friend and have done this very thing. Your poem is lovely and takes me back to picking fruit especially when I was young. These lines are so descriptive and made me giggle a bit as I understand them:

    “A mother starling nags from overhead,
    so I leave a few for her hatchlings—
    a generosity I now regret.
    Mulberry season is precarious—
    and a man can’t be held responsible
    in these perilous times”.

    Nice to meet you here. Joni

    Le gusta a 1 persona

    1. Thank you, Joni. Glad I made you giggle.

      Le gusta a 1 persona

  2. Thanks for publishing my little poem!

    Le gusta a 1 persona

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