There is an art to harvest.
Loop the bucket over one wrist and with that hand
reach to grasp the branch and draw it down.
Make a rake of your fingers, pass them quickly through the stems.
Repeat. Repeat again.
Don’t squeeze, or you will crush the fruit. Avoid the leaves and twigs;
like the cherry stones they are heavy with poison. Leave
every third branch you come to without picking.
This fruit feeds the bears and winter birds.

Wipe the sweat of August from your brow and drink deep before
proceeding. Resist the urge
to lick your fingers clean. There is no sweetness there.
First you must sweat your way along the bank,
wild onions sharp-crushed beneath your heel, mosquitoes
pricking at your blood.
Repeat until the bucket brims.

Go home. Wash, sort, boil. Wipe
the kitchen sweat away from your sunburned neck.
Boil. Stir. Boil. Can. Boil. In the end
you’ll catch the ruby summer fast in jars, but first
you will learn what all your mothers learned by doing:

There is an art to harvest, and
Some sweetness must be earned.