Red Huckleberry

A Poem

The trailhead lies where seed-topped pasture grass
Yields way to alder stands and bramble stacks.
A creek flows clear beside the path. It cleaves
The maple canopy, and in its flow 
The light refracts to show the spectrum, full
Of all the colors known to human eye.
Steep, sunny banks are packed with crowds of canes
Of thimbleberries: flattened rosy discs 
That crumble when I try to pull them free.
Astride the creek, a bridge with rusty beams
Is sprouting maiden hair from sodden planks.

I cross and venture deeper. 

							Leafy trees 
Give way to Douglas fir and hemlock groves.
The way is wet from morning mist. A slug
Traverses needles dropped in windy spring,
When strong Pacific storms blew in and bent
The feathered branches. Some trees—rigid—snapped,
While others—weak—upended, leaving pits
Of mottled clay. The lithe and hale stand tall.
And now, in summer, humid light falls through 
The boughs and casts its dappled rays upon 
My shoulders. 

				Huckleberry bushes grow 
On windfall cedars rotting on the ground.
Their whiplike limbs bear oval leaves laid flat,
Concealing what I seek in shady groves.
Beneath the emerald fans hang red-orange orbs
That hide from hungry finches flitting past.
I reach and pluck the fruit, attentive not
To crush them ‘tween my clumsy grasping thumb
And index finger. One by one they fill 
The basket, piling up like salmon roe.
I toss one in my mouth and break its skin 
By pressing with my tongue. 

							The juice is tart.
The flesh is tender. 

					Sampling them is best
Done furtively, in honor of the shade 
In which they grow. At home I will transmute 
Them into jam, by adding heat and sweet.
I’ll spread it on the bread she baked today 
And savor every hard-earned cherished bite.