fingers stained with purplish blush
reaping harvest from the brush
thus begins the picking season

no paid pickers on these hills
and barrens bare of rakes and frills
the buckets are the only tools

and once they’re filled with berry treasure
overflowing a goodly measure
at dusk the bounty is duly home

then the humble berry shines
in cakes and pies and homemade wines
more than a few eaten out-of-hand

recipe names are quick to list
grunt and cobbler, fool and crisp
too many to do justice here

late summer turns to early fall
the bushes have been stripped bare, all
and thus we end the picking season

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