Poetry Corner for Aug. 1
The old Chevy truck stands ready,
lined up on the grass.
We scramble in the truck bed,
laughing and excited with
so much to be said.
Papa rides up front with
Lucky Strike in hand.
He is the director, leader of this band.
Lots of mama’s sandwiches,
made with loving care.
Watkins orange drink by the jug,
for all of us to share!
We travel many miles, the sun is getting hot.
Finally Papa gives the signal,
“Stop, this is the spot.”
The first sweet, luscious berries,
what a joy treat.A special gift from God,that simply can’t be beat.
Now we get down to business,filling up our pails,careful not to spill this precious cargoon the rutted trails.
As time goes on the day grows long,we are no longer laughing.We are grumpy and mosquito bit,ready to hang it up and quit.
Finally Papa takes pity on this sad,dejected group,“Time to go home,” he yells,calling in the troops.
The older kids help young ones,back into the truck we go,things are very quiet,everyone is moving slow.
Our pails are filled with berries,twigs and leaves and such,but also filled with memories of timesthat mean so much.
As sure as blueberries return each year,so do sweet memories of thosewe loved so dear.
Ann Gradishar of Aurora