Jan is hosting Poetry Friday today, and she's encouraging us to take a moment off in the middle of this stressful moment in the news. So here's a poem I read on social media this week.
Blackberries
by Margaret Atwood
In the early morning an old woman
is picking blackberries in the shade.
It will be too hot later
but right now there's dew.
Some berries fall: those are for squirrels.
Some are unripe, reserved for bears.
Some go into the metal bowl.
Those are for you, so you may taste them
just for a moment.
That's good times: one little sweetness
after another, then quickly gone.
6 comments:
Hi Ruth! I just added yours to Jan's site. Sorry to be slow, I am like that dog in Up who gets distracted by squirrels. I love Margaret Atwood's poem so much. Everyone's afraid, in youth, of having grandmother's hands, of youth being temporary, but here she says, Don't cry, and she's right, so many little sweetnesses, such beauty growing in the shadows. xo
Ruth, the sweetness of blackberries is a favorite summer treat. Atwood's poem is another treat. "The blackberries gleam like glass,/like the glass ornaments/we hang on trees in December". Thank you, Tabatha, for sharing Ruth's post. It is a gem.
Hello wonderful Ruth. I luv knowing that singular MA won this lifetime achievement honor from this illustrious organization, which I'm grateful have now educated me about with your sharing of a poem that wraps hands of generations into the the memory of blackberry bursst of pleasure, blackberries as precious as ornaments. It's exquisite.. She is something else, isn't she. As. Are. You.
Many appreciations for your steadfast attendance this week. I'm very sorry there were digital downer dregs when you attempted to link up at Bookseedstudio. I'm so grateful you had Mary Lee to guide your link in. I"m at JGAoffice@gmail.com if this ever happens again.
Wishing you are healthy & calm, if possible, week ahead from your fan, jan
Thanks for this, Ruth! I love that Atwood said:
"Don’t cry, this is what happens." That's how I feel when I look down at my hands these days and see — gasp! — my mother's hands. :)
Ruth: We had our son and family, 4 grands, for a visit on Sunday. Exactly as the poem says: good times and then quickly gone. Corn on the cob and mosquito bites mashed up together. Harmony and discord, all in a quick afternoon. Thanks for this poem... perfect for the moment.
Just like Karen, I am seeing my mother's hands in mine more and more every day!
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