The Last Berry

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.