Monday, September 25, 2006


Blackberries grow sweet from the sadness
of cloudy days at summer’s end.
Go to them. Step into the prickly thicket.
Take care of thorns—
they may claim drops of your blood,
exchanged for purple juice.
Cup the bunches
with a gentle hand.
Let the ripe fruit fall
like the breasts of a young lover undressing.
Take care of spider webs,
silent strings quivering
when you brush against the branches.
These are friends. Take care
when shadows drop lower every evening.
Remember that the blackberries
need picking.

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