photo: ralph murre
How to
Make Blueberry Pie
by
Peggy Trojan
Enter
Quinton swamp at last year’s faded marker.
Keep
up with Pa, in his eighties and leading.
Deep
in woods, where berries hang like grapes,
powdery
blue, warm, kneel.
Listen.
“When I was six we took the horses….
water
got warm and butter melted on the bread….”
Pretend
you never heard of the 1918 fire.
“Dad
put us eight kids in a circle in the field ….
My
pet ram was killed because he was burned black…”
When
your pail is full, blindly follow Pa
through
brush slapping your face. Have faith.
You
come out right in front of the truck.
Admire
the pickings. “By God, we did pretty good.”
Clean
berries at picnic table under the pines.
Make
crust while Pa makes filling.
Talk
about how great berries were last year,
or
was it the year before? “Man, it was just blue…..”
Let
Pa slice it. “Gramma Uitto cut hers in four…..”
Put
ice cream on your piece to cool it,
use
a spoon for juice. Smack your lips and
laugh
when
Pa scrapes his plate, says again,
“That’ll sell!”
~
first published in Wilda Morris Poetry
Challenge
