Menu
Share
Share this story
Close X
 
Switch to Desktop Site

Raspberries, Preserved

About these ads

The weather's turned hot again

with the reddening. We pick them in morning

and put them to chill

until the heat of the day calls for pause;

sit on the deck with beads of plumpness

in white bowls of milk.

My father liked them with sugar

and fresh cream. Mother bottled them

in clear quarts - ruby reflections

in the slant light of the cellar.

When we were children, we traveled fifty miles

to Bear Lake to pick our year's store:

ate what we could hold in mountain air

above copper-blue waters.

They were tartness under the suns

of first-crop hay, jams of plenty

on loaves sliced thick.

And through Wyoming winters

they remain ... summer distilled

through any long cold.


Follow Stories Like This
Get the Monitor stories you care about delivered to your inbox.

Loading...