Picking raspberries, I consider
that writing poems is just like this sometimes —
There’s sight involved, but picking
comes down to touch most often —
a gentle grasp that doesn’t bruise the berries,
just firm enough to pull them off,
and knowing to desist if they resist too much,
to wait another day until they ripen

I stoop down to peer beneath the leaves
and spot the hanging red,
then my hand goes in almost blind
to feel if it is ready and to pick it if it is.
Some berries fall apart in my hand,
some years, some are mushy
(but not this crop)
We’ll tend them well to keep them plump

With poems I do the same thing,
with the initial spark, with words,
with images —
I move focused along the canes
and fill my basket.

©Wendy Mulhern
June 15, 2015