Mulberries and Blackberries: A Poem of Appalachia
Summertime meant buckets, scratched hands, mulberries, blackberries.
Summertime meant makin’ jelly for biscuits and eatin’ so many that you had to lay- box fan blowin’ on face- just to keep from gettin’ sick.
I used to eat more berries than I’d save, and lyin’ didn’t do me any good, ‘cause my red-stained lips gave me away.
I thought if life consisted of pickin blackberries, I’d be happy.
They were so bitter and seedy, they made my nose crinkle, and I guess they weren’t even that good comin’ straight off the bush, but they were the best part of summer.
How can somethin’ not even that good be the best thing ever?
Those blackberries symbolized Appalachia; it ain’t always sweet and it leaves you with a bunch of scratches, but it’s perfect nonetheless.
Appalachia is just a bucket of mulberries and blackberries and the North is a pretty fruit salad.
