Berry picking is always an opportunity
to reflect on how
even the slightest changes in perspective
can bear more fruit
to the eye,
to the fingertip,
to the hot, hungry mouth
parched under the July sun.
Turning my head just slightly to the side
I see more black
shining beautiful, under leaf,
through a gauntlet of
threatening threads. They smell
grassy,
herbal,
woody,
ripe and dry.
Picking barely black berries near
their thorns
I am painfully
reminded
of my oft-painful relationship with my mother,
but only because I don't have
my mother's green thumb.
These berries grow wild and hearty
regardless of my care or intuition.
These self-sufficient
blobs so beautifully suspended in the air
on their prickly green lace arcs
under their canopies of velvety leaves
also prickly,
thorned, spiked.
Gentle, strong green
structures holding me
aloft. A protective canopy
against bear, bird, storm,
debris, scratched human hand
black line under the finger
nails.
So, aspiring,
am I green with envy?
I turn new leaves so green
they glow yellow, over.
I find borne there, even more
fruit just beyond the raw,
visceral magenta of:
Not ready.
Not yet.
Wait, please.
Please, listen:
The abrasion red of the thorn path
blends into the juice
and vegetal residue.
What is delicious and what is abhorrent?
Is this blood or is this a blackberry?
I wish I could pick
these blackberries
without sentiment,
without thinking.
