July 17, 2004 8:15pm
A long and hard day's work behind,
Full of saws, branches and hatchets,
I finish my meal and feel the need
For a well-earned rest. But in my mind
I hear leaves rustle: the blackberry patch.
I'm late. Five days have passed instead of two.
Mowing the grounds again this morning I had seen,
To my shame, berries drying on the vine.
"I'm going berry picking," I say, hoping
For company, but head outside alone.
Upon my arrival, a hidden bird sings
A blue hiss, wishing me to leave.
I think back, "There's plenty here for you to share
Beyond my feeble reach--and more I'm sure
I cannot see for you to feast upon."
Tonight I stretch farther over the fence
And pay the price that brambles demand, a scratching
Patchwork pierced across my hand, a legacy
Of itching pricks. I lick my fingers
Stained with berry blood--or maybe mine.
Half an hour later I head inside
Having hunted through the thorns for every
Ripe and hidden fruit within reach.
The five day wait has served me well: instead
Of half a pint, tonight I've gleaned a whole.