August and Blackberries
August
When the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody owns, I spend
all day among the high
branches, reaching
my ripped arms, thinking
of nothing, cramming
the black honey of summer
into my mouth; all day my body
accepts what it is. In the dark
creeks that run by there is
this thick paw of my life darting among
the black bells, the leaves; there is
this happy tongue.
—Mary Oliver
Blackberries gathered in Oregon by my nephew. I remember picking blackberries at age seven with my grandmother near the Oregon border.
