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After Blackberry Picking
into the hedgerow's
clusters of blackberries,
picking their plumpness
with finger and thumb
richly stained by juices,
bare arms grazed
red by bramble thorns.
out of the oven's
blast of heat, pulling
the pie dish and setting
it on a cooling rack,
the tanned top rises
and falls with blackberry
breath, and now to
slice into summer,
my mouth fills with it;
but for this pie
what else has turned
out how it should?
for the autumn light
fades early, things die
back into eternal snow.
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