| Raspberry Pickin With bowl in hand I head out to The briar patch, known just to few. Raspberries, black, are gold to me, For jam and several pies to be. I enter in with careful stride, For dreaded poison ivy hides Beneath the canes, around, within, It awaits to brush upon the skin. Berries ripe are close at hand. Aside the hill, I carefully stand. Begin the harvest, one by one. Upon my back now, evening sun. Light now fading fast, I see. Mosquitoes start their search for me. They find their mark, I know I�m beat, I grab my bowl and sound retreat! Douglas Fletcher 3/06/2001 |
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