Blackberry Preserves


And every summer, the blackberries ripened
And we went out to the forests and fields with bowl and pail
And picked until they were full and our mouths were blue
And we were hot and red-burned and scratched
From searching under leaves and in the grass.

Home then for mother’s blackberry pies
Baked crisp and warm from the wood-stove oven 
Ice cream covered, thick, blue-black and high, 
That night, our closed eyes still saw berries against leaves,
As we wandered again through fruit-filled fields.

Then squashed, sugared berries in the stewing kettle  
And boiling of jars and lids and melting of wax,
Getting the covers carefully sealed tight and right
On the lined-up jars cooling on the kitchen counter,
The sum of our labors, our winter’s taste of summer.

Would I could preserve so well 
Those early years for my winter’s shelves.

© Helen Johansen