The Blackberries

Margaret V.Doran

For 28 years we did not live in town
our children were born and blossomed
in the country, barefoot and healthy
we grew what we ate and had milk
from the neighbors' cow
we moved not by choice but
by necessity of circumstance

I learned to not hang clothes on the line in my nighty
to put on a robe when I went outside
to not dance barefoot in the rain or cry under the stars
I learned to be quieter; to draw the blinds
to keep my emotions locked up inside the house
where they could not offend the neighbors

but we planted flowers and grass
and a garden
to feed our spirits and our souls

one after another the flowers all died
the grass shrivels to brown every June
garden after garden refused to grow
the city produced no blossoms, no food, no life

native Scotch broom alone seemed to thrive
I planted pink blush broom
only the wild blackberries offered their fruits
in the summer where our children gathered
in the shade of ancient, thorny canes
to eat their fill of sun-warmed, fat fruits
staining faces, dripping juice down their arms
and once sated, left buckets of berries on the counter
for me to make pies with their harvest

today, for an urban renewal project
to beautify the city streets
the blackberries were ripped out by their roots
so that someone could plant perfectly acceptable fotinia
in their place

Copyright © 2002 Margaret V. Doran. All rights reserved.

If you enjoyed this poem, please send her an e-mail here.

Updated August 22, 2002
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