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Raspberry Picker
March 4, 2012
The sunshine sprinkled
Over my face like burning ambers
My hands were sweating
As I tightened my grip on the
Wooden baskets,
Overflowing with
Purple, plump raspberries
I forced my legs to keep walking
It felt like if I didn’t
Stop to rest, they would
Crack like stone and
Turn to dust
Like the warm sand
Under my bare feet.
I put a little raspberry into my mouth,
And as I stared into
Nothing,
I tasted its sour bitterness.
© Liz K., Rockford, MI
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