Mother and Daddy in front of the farm house where I grew up.
I am sharing a poem from my book, Now Might as Well be Then, about my blackberry picking.
Mother's voice rises above my bawling.
"Stop pitching a fit and get your bucket."
I plant myself on the top step
bare feet refusing to move.
My dread lies coiled deep in the brambles.
He slithered out when I thrust my hand
in to grab a plump one.
Fear-prickled, I danced in terror
then streaked home screaming.
An ominous cloud shadows the sky.
Fat raindrops plop in the yard dust.
Reprieve. Blessed reprieve.
-- Glenda C. Beall