I love to go out in late September
among the fat, overripe, icy, black blackberries
to eat blackberries for breakfast,
the stalks very prickly, a penalty
they earn for knowing the black art
of blackberry making; and as I stand among them
lifting the stalks to my mouth, the ripest berries
fall almost unbidden to my tongue,
as words sometimes do, certain peculiar words
like strengths or squinched, or broughamed,
many-lettered, one-syllabled lumps,
which I squeeze, squinch open, and splurge well
in the silent, startled, icy, black language
of blackberry eating in late September.
i ran across this poem recently and it occurred to me that i had a whole series of blackberry images from last summer in oregon that i hadn't shared....
when we camped along the rouge river, they were EVERYWHERE! plump, juicy and ripe for the picking.
big bags of them ended up in our little motorhome freezer - the best kind of souvenir!
oh, the joys of summer....