Berry Picking

I was teaching my grand-daughter how to pick blackberries:
“If they don’t pull off easily, leave them. They are not ripe enough.”
“If you grab ahold of a green berry you can pull the branch down so you can reach it.”
“If we lay a board against the vines we can get to the ones further back.”

All of the berry picking wisdom I had learned as a child was now being passed on.

I leaned a ladder against the fence so that we could reach the highest fruit,
And as I started to climb she said,
“You better let me, Grandma. If I fall it will just hurt.
But if you fall, you might break something.”

I learned lessons too that day:
That children see us with eyes much different than our own,
That love outweighs fear,
And those berries closest to the sky,
Picked by the hands of a precious young girl
Are the sweetest of all.

-Rishell Graves
August 25, 2011

Pebble Beach

Sitting on the shore of Pebble Beach,
I am trying to hold on to this moment.

If I were a painter I would create images of the trees:
Dark green firs, lighter green maples and oaks,
And paler yet, the shimmering cottonwoods.
I would mix paints together for the water-
Blues, greens and gray.

Wind Mountain in the East,
I would draw as a dome,
Then cover it with green and brown,
With a touch or red here and there.

There would be a splash of magenta to my left,
For the wild sweet peas that reach toward the water,
And a triangle of white in the distance,
That of a passing sailboat.

But the tool I carry is a pencil.
So I write with words,
To create a picture I can relive another day,
And bring me back here,
To the shore of Pebble Beach.

-Rishell Graves
August 26, 2011