Thursday, August 20, 2009


burst along the path where I used to push my babies. The three would stick out their chubby little fists and pick the blackest berries, staining themselves silly.

It's a new season, now. A new crop. I run the path alone, while my big kids sleep in.

But just to remember, I pluck off a berry and it rolls on my tongue for a second, and I close my eyes and taste those sweet days of yesterday.

1 comment:

Christy Raedeke said...

There's nothing like an Oregon blackberry, picked fresh and still warm from the sun...