I go to pick blackberries
in the arcing glow of goldenrod.
Taller than I disheveled asters star pale and wild,
crickets fiddling away in the
hot sunshine of short grass.

A White Admiral, surprisingly
assertive for a butterfly
dares me to come closer,
winks velvet black wings
as if it might alight
on my outstretched arms.

How rich the wine my tongue
kisses from the ripe fruit;
fierce dry saber thorns
snake-strike me again
with the sweet pain
of every love I’ve known.