BTT #78: Raspberries and the Glory

Raspberries and the Glory

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It is such a graceful name.

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For such an awful curse-

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“Morning Glory”

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Say it and what do you see?

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It brings me

No thoughts of a

Beautiful start to any day,

Rather, I see a choking weed that

Was once my responsibility

To clear away from 

The spiny leaves and briars

From acres of autumn raspberries

Standing in long rows of 

Summer, too early

And too hot 

To yet be bearing fruit.

This weed did not merely

Rob and feed beside our crop, 

But entwined itself with it,

Twisting and

Winding round

The canes,

We would have to find the 

Vines or leaves, hanging like small

Upended hearts of dusty green,

And uncurl them from

Around the pricking thorns, and 

Follow them to their

Base and pull out as much 

Root as we could, 

Maybe an inch, or maybe two

At the most before it would crisply snap 

Off below the ground, leaving

A small tip behind,

Like a worm in the brain

To sprout and 

Grow and curl and twist

And live to fight 

Another day.

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I was, of course, quite useless.

Some weeks I would 

Move unrelenting up and

Down the rows, untwisting,

Uncurling, and pulling

And snapping.

And when I would finish the patch, 

It often seemed

More glories would be waiting for me

When starting over than

When I first began,

But still I would start again

Thinking of the coolness of

The city pool, and my bicycle

Racing the dry wind

To carry me there,

And my brother, pacing ahead 

In the rows, 

Vines and tendrils

Gathering like bones of locusts

Beneath his never stopping hands.

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I was young, 

A tween before we knew 

The name or inclination,

So maybe I can be excused,

Just a little,

If I would just give 

Up and hide sometimes 

In the brambled shade as

Our sleepy Irish setter 

Slept, or snapped at bees

Or simply gazed out at everything

While I would read.

I covered most of Tolkein there,

Devouring and turning

Pages in secret shame

As Pellenor was won

And Gollum slipped

Screaming into the flame.

No Spirits came to aid me

From either the

Paths of the Dead or from

Down the street,  and so

The grey green weed and its

Small white flowers grew, 

Covering our hedge like a shroud 

For ancient kings.

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I think we still harvested

Plenty of berries in the fall,

I honestly don’t know, learning

Only after years that my

Father knew both my efforts

And my shirkings,

But 

Never

Said 

A Word.

The picking still managed 

To keep us busy when 

East winds from the canyons

Cooled the air 

Then we would all just 

Let the damn weed grow 

And simply switched our 

Hands to gather

Sweeter fruit.

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I am older now,

And still quite useless

In some ways, having brushed against

Both the joys and boundaries

Of toil, I cannot clear away the

Sufferings of the

Days and years,

The pains I caused,

Or wipe away tears

Gathering beneath the ground.

I can neither untwist or

Uncurl, I cannot even change

What happened yesterday,

But I have tried, sometimes 

Pulling gently for years, but 

Still that quiet snap gives way.

Is it ruthless to flee, or is it just 

Flying to safety?

Can we even judge the difference

From what we thought we knew?

Do we ever measure the sun

Beating out our time in hot rows 

Toiling or only just see the cuts

And scratches lining 

Arms and hands 

Coming up and out of

The tangled thorny maze?

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I cannot speak an answer,

But perhaps can only hope 

That something always grows.

Our family was large, living on

Teacher’s pay, so as for money

It seemed we needed more,

Selling the berries helped,

But to know whether Father

Was raising fruit or children, 

Even now,

I am not sure.

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And as for me?

Well, who knows-

Counting tears

And joys, 

The unraveling years

And hours,

The barbs and 

Weighted measures,

We are all held in a balance.

I feel a hand upon me

Resting, and can’t help

But wonder 

If all this time

God was just As interested

In the flowers.

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-Lona Gynt, July 2021. All rights reserved.

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Linked to dVerse, a guest hosting by one of its founders, Claudia Schoenfield who invites us to write a poem about gardening. Here is the link:

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https://dversepoets.com/2021/07/13/poetics-gardening/

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