HillShadow
Time is measured by the peaks;
the backlit sun all at once speaks.
But here our plodding, muddled wills
live in the shadow of the hills.
Lesson
Every year,
among the boulders,
bogs and steeps,
we string our shoulders
with our buckets,
picking clusters,
wild blueberries;
backs we muster,
knees we bend and
ache for acres,
random purple.
Cobbler bakers,
we pick bounty
from the land
not planted by
a human hand.
This year,
to spare the knees
and backs, we traveled
to a farm; with ease,
filling bucket bottoms, drumming
with the bigger berries, falling
off the bush and coming
by the gallons; we picked
ordered rows
where cultivated
purple grows.
Today,
our quality of choosing,
oven fires are revealing,
as the big and easy berries—
sugar, flour, not concealing—
miss the better feral flavors.
Sadly, cobbler’s not a snack
tasted by the knees and back.
I Samuel 12:1-18
The poetry and images of
Kenner Beckley
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