Berry Season

 

Berry Season

I've picked berries since I was small,
Barefoot summers, I remember them all.
Peat bog blueberries, tangled and sweet,
Almost fell in a wasp nest beneath my feet.

Mom's voice called sharp, her arms pulled tight,
Saved me from the sting, into the light.
We picked and played on Surrey land,
Blue juice staining both mouth and hand.

At Grandma’s house, around age six,
She'd send me out for my morning fix.
Raspberries ripe in garden rows,
A breakfast gift the sunshine grows.

Then came teen years, rows to weed,
Berry jobs to meet a need.
Abbotsford fields stretched wide and long,
The raspberry capital, proud and strong.

Mom told me how her father too,
Took her out when skies were blue—
A family thread, a seasonal rite,
Passed down in morning mist and light.

Now I crave them—red, blue, or black,
But markets sell them in a tiny pack.
Six bucks a handful, it feels unfair,
Nature's bounty priced like rare air.

Still, I wait all year for this taste,
For berry juice and sticky paste.
Today I plucked them from a garden bed,
A few went in, unwashed instead.

That buggy tang—oops, too late!
A little protein on my plate. 😬
But laughter comes, and then a grin,
As I take my harvest back within.

I wash, I rinse, I smile, I cheer—
Yay! My favourite time is here.
Berry season, sweet and wild,
Still brings joy to this grown-up child.