I found the sweetest, most
beautiful berry on a dull day,
in a duller summer, dimpled
with new rain.
It almost escaped my attention:
being the last summer fruit it
hid, shyly, beneath a broad
leaf. I stepped back, looked at
the fresh thing almost with
awe; I wanted it to be
mine. So did the bush.
Over the next day, I came
back to the leaf, lifted it
gently, like one might settle
a baby almost asleep. It seemed
to look back at me, as if wanting
to be tasted. As if it were diminished
through being the last berry beneath
the leaf. Anxious that blackbirds or
rain might destroy the sweet purple
fruit, I reached forward, heart
pounding and asked the berry
if I should take it. There was no
reply of course, but I took this
as acceptance and plucked the
thing, both of us trembling.
I wanted to keep it forever;
but held there in the palm of my
protecting hand, I knew what
must happen: I put the berry between
my dry lips, tasted its sugar moist
with the glassy August drizzle.
Held it instead, now, within me.
It nourished me, tasted divine, and
I needed it. As it needed me.
