Blackberries by Mary Oliver
BLACKBERRIES
I come down
Come down the blacktop road from Red Rock.
A hot day.
Off the road in the hacked tangles
blackberries big as thumbs hang shining
in the shade. And a creek nearby: a dark
spit through we stones. And a pool
like a stonesink if you know
where to climb for it among
the hillside ferns, where the thrush
naps in her nest of sticks and loam. I
come down from the Red Rock, lips streaked
black, fingers purple, throat cool, shirt
full of fernfingers, head full of windy
whistling. It takes all day
—Mary Oliver
