Ripe weight in the hand. Ripe
sheen to the skin. Pink then red then
purple as a clot of blood. All August
my mouth was aflood with juice, finger
tips tacky with sweet ink. Got up early
just to get. In July, I did not know
that I was waiting to wade among
briars, though I stored tins and scrubbed
cans, combed potato drills and tomato
plants, patient as an empty jug
of wine, and so ready for what summer
would bequeath. Not all blackberries
are symbolic. Some metaphors
will stain your teeth.