Blackberries for Breakfast

I had blackberries for breakfast this morning

grown on a nearby mountain by a couple

no longer young but still in their prime.

I tasted their youth,

felt the grit between my teeth
of a too-tight budget and a too-small house,

smelled their dreams of acreage, farmland, a life made rich and full

by sweat and soil and a solid work ethic.

I mashed up my berries

and watched the juice run in the bowl,

saw blood from blistered hands

and heard the curses muttered under the breath

when another machine went down

and there was no money to fix it.

I lifted my spoon to my mouth and

tasted a first good harvest on land long saved for,

good years and lean years,

pungent, fertile ground and dust,

sun, rain, wind, drought, and storm,

sweet and tart together,

still gritty from time to time

but full and juicy and rich,

a breakfast so full of life

I could taste it.