I Am Your Huckleberry

Each year during the month of my birth

The Huckleberry transforms its pink flowers

Into delicious berries growing close to the earth

In August, while the ground was still wet with dew

We would wake early and start our search as

The shrubs were often hidden from view

Which for kids became more of a hunt for treasure

Than foraging for berries that would be transformed

When left to my grandmother's culinary pleasure

Most years, there were pies, tarts, jams, and jellies

Created in a kitchen filled with love

If we could only wait and not fill our bellies

As we picked and spoke of the delights to come

The excitement we felt and the memories we made

Return each August as I remember my purple thumb

As a berry crushed between my tiny fingers when I plucked

Too quickly, and its juices released everywhere

But nothing was wasted, and one by one, I sucked

The juices quickly from each finger, savoring the taste

Though no one cared as long as the bucket was full

No one would know that in our haste

We would push and shove, and a bucket would spill

We would each blame the other for the

The time spent picking up berries instead of the thrill

Of tasting the results of our labor

Once we refilled our bucket, we would rush home

All excited, chatting loudly, and ready to savor

Grandmother's transformation of these dark purple berries

My brother and I would push and shove

To be the first to present her with our berry bucket

But it wasn’t only the Huckleberry treats we loved

It was Grandmother's kitchen at the end of the day

The aroma, the laughter, the pride we felt in our contribution

She always expressed her joy, and we would respond and say

An old phrase, although today, the meaning may vary

It brings a smile when I remember us shouting

"I am your Huckleberry"