Mulberries in the Piedmont

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Mulberries in the Piedmont

From the first snow melt
until my coatless hike,
I’ve walked under this tree
without noticing its mulberries.

I rush to pluck the fruit,
ripened purple over a warm night,
pop juicy morsels in my stained mouth,
gambling on sweet against tart.

A mother starling nags from overhead,
so I leave a few for her hatchlings—
a generosity I now regret.

Mulberry season is precarious—
and a man can’t be held responsible
in these perilous times.

About Bartholomew Barker

Bartholomew Barker was born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, worked in Connecticut for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough, North Carolina where he makes money as a computer programmer to fund his poetry habit.
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12 Responses to Mulberries in the Piedmont

  1. Cassa Bassa says:

    ‘pop juicy morsels in my stained mouth,
    gambling on sweet against tart.’ 💚

  2. Lisa Tomey says:

    Oh how this returns me to childhood memories. Many a bird may have sacrificed for my mulberry appetite. And I’d do it again. Lovely words.

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