Mulberries in the Piedmont

Posted on 2020-05-12 by Bartholomew Barker

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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.

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About Bartholomew Barker

Bartholomew Barker is an organizer of Living Poetry, a collection of poets in the Triangle region of North Carolina where he has hosted a monthly feedback workshop for more than decade. His first poetry collection, Wednesday Night Regular, written in and about strip clubs, was published in 2013. His second, Milkshakes and Chilidogs, a chapbook of food inspired poetry was served in 2017. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2021. Born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, he worked in Connecticut for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough where he lives and writes poetry.
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12 Responses to Mulberries in the Piedmont

  1. Cassa Bassa's avatar Cassa Bassa says:
    2020-05-12 at 19:19

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

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply
  2. Lisa Tomey-Zonneveld's avatar Lisa Tomey says:
    2020-05-12 at 19:38

    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.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply
  4. House of Heart's avatar House of Heart says:
    2020-05-13 at 20:55

    A lovely poem!

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

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