My husband’s favorite
made with the berries from his garden.
Bubbling butter forming a cinnamon crust
purple juice swirling
lightly, warm, and sweet.
He asked for banana cream pie.
But the berries were shouting from the freezer,
That was Sunday.
On Monday, nothing remained
but the stuck-on pieces
clinging to the sides of the dish.
Love is like that.
Giving what you
Receiving with an open heart.
. . .
Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words. —Robert Frost
Big, juicy, purple blackberries grow in our garden. The Crows, Mockingbirds, and my husband clamor for the indigo berries.
The harvest transitions into a labor of love in the kitchen. Mixing flour, sugar, cinnamon, and butter, the fruit transforms into a bubbly dish waiting for whipped cream, vanilla ice cream, and a spoon.
My grandmother grew these purple orbs, but she called them dewberries. Shakespeare claimed that “a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Dewberries, blackberries, the name does not matter, they taste as sweet.
They also grow wild along the roadside, on the banks of streams and lakes. No doubt, the birds carry off the seeds and deposit them unceremoniously across the countryside.
I wonder if our words travel in a similar manner. Without much thought, we often scatter aimless words across the day. What are we planting? Kindness, trust, or more nefarious elements like hate or anger?
We have choices. Whatever we say spreads and grows. Why not make a better choice—what a difference a word can make.