Dad taught me how to search for
ripe blueberries, how to tickle the stems
and gently strip branches clean
without bruising the fruit.
Back then, giggling, we’d pop a few
in our mouths, and I’d roll them
a little – on the tongue
before closing teeth to burst the skin.
Blueberry picking with my dad
meant slower days, earth-funk time
in South Jersey fields, fingers stained purple
and berries ripening in the sun
on low scrubby bushes, their
bounty yielding at the warm press of flesh.
Tasting fresh blueberries now, warm
from my local farmers market is
reminder of blueberry mornings together,
sense moments saved from all those years ago
on the warmest of July days.
Dad liked heading out early,
just after the season began.
Sometimes we wouldn’t hit the farms
until late July, or even August.
Few things are as true as New Jersey blues.
Melinda Rizzo is the Bucks County Herald’s Area Guide to Homes Editor.
Poet’s Corner is curated by Bucks County Poet Laureate Tom Mallouk and supported by a grant to the Bucks County Herald Foundation made possible by Marv and Dee Ann Woodall.
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