August Mary Oliver 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 … Continue reading Praying with Fringes 7/11/2014 – cramming the black honey of summer into my mouth
To pick raspberries Elliott batTzedek To pick raspberries you must be prepared to pluck each separate rain-swollen bud — a greedy, impatient tug tumbles cane’s blushing yield deep below bramble, every fruit lost a sin against your waiting, wanting mouth. To pick raspberries you must consider the sun, how it arcs across the ripe belly … Continue reading Praying with Fringes 7/10/2014 – sweet and sweet and sweet until your tongues are sated
Blueberry Season, 1976 Eileen Walsh Duncan As the marsh swelters in August, it begins: the sweet, dappled stain on our hands, the languid shadows. Three languages between us. One endless task. Each berry rolling heavily from the stem with drowsy liquid thuds. When you're fourteen, and walk a summer under this buzzing canopy, bathed in … Continue reading Praying with Fringes 7/09/2014 – the sweet, dappled stain on our hands
Raspberries Judith McDaniel Others ripen slowly into darkness; You hide beneath a leaf and come in swift and fragrant redness.