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.

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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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