Mulberries in the Piedmont
by Bartholomew Barker
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.
Please follow our site and read our editorial announcement, and how to submit here.
MasticadoresUsa // Editor: Barbara Leonhard 
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
Me gustaLe gusta a 1 persona
Thank you, Joni. Glad I made you giggle.
Me gustaLe gusta a 1 persona
Thanks for publishing my little poem!
Me gustaLe gusta a 1 persona
My pleasure.
Me gustaLe gusta a 1 persona