Berry Picking

By Rishell Graves

Written en plein air at The Gorge White House, Hood River, Oregon

I was teaching my grand-daughter how to pick blackberries:
“If they don’t pull off easily, leave them. They are not ripe enough.”
“If you grab a hold of a green berry you can pull the branch down so you can reach it.”
“If we lay a board against the vines we can get to the ones further back.”

All of the berry picking wisdom I had learned as a child was now being passed on.

I leaned a ladder against the fence so that we could reach the highest fruit,
And as I started to climb she said,
“You better let me, Grandma. If I fall it will just hurt,
But if you fall, you might break something.”

I learned lessons too that day:
That children see us with eyes much different than our own,
That love outweighs fear,
And those berries closest to the sky,
Picked by the hands of a precious young girl,
Are the sweetest of all.