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JUST PICKING SAGE

Just Picking Sage, an original poem
Just Picking Sage
 
Sitting on my porch on an autumn afternoon;
Picking from the herbs that had been growing there since June;
Listening to the radio, they were playing my favorite tune;
But I was doing more than picking sage.
 
Memories of my Grandma over 30 years ago
Picking from my sage plants, when I didn’t even know
They were growing in my garden, right next to my fence row
I didn’t know a thing about picking sage
 
She brought the sage leaves in and carefully laid them out;
She assumed I wouldn’t bother them, never had a doubt
That I would know what to do with them, but I threw them out
Didn’t dream she would want the dried-up sage.
 
I never have forgotten the lesson I learned that day;
I took a lot of teasing about the sage I threw away
“It’s supposed to be dried out!” is what I heard her say
As she went out to pick some more sage.
 
So it wasn’t just the harvesting of the herbs that made me cry;
And it wasn’t the chives that grew there that brought a tear to my eye
And it wasn’t just the thoughts of turkey and dressing by and by;
That brought to me such joy while picking sage.
 
It was memories clearly photographed in some corner of my mind;
It was laughter and some joking as times’ video did rewind
It was family’s precious moments in the past that I could find;
While sitting on the porch, just picking sage.
Written by Joan Hart, October 12, 2002, Copyright 2002

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