Blackberry Season
By Joannie Stangeland
When the house pours its yellow light
into the day’s long wake,
we become
swimmers treading water,
dusk an ocean
here in the back yard.
Slowly we float
to the sound of ice in a
glass of tea or gin,
guitars on a neighbor’s
radio,
dandelions unwrapping
like anemones,
urchins, a spiny seed for
every thought
planting again this
unasked-for harvest
drifting as the smell of
blackberries
settles, holds the last
of summer close
and deep enough to make
us heady.
Here with evening falling into our arms
we know we’ve stayed
inside too often,
felt strangers to our own
hands,
the fortunes we can’t
read on our palms,
our wishes charted to
some other porch
where cleaner windows
gleam, gold islands.
The wake behind the last boat thins
to plain water and salt.
Robins nest in the eaves,
and we founder on our
wooden chairs
in the swells of that
purple scent,
begin our stories again,
starting
Once upon a night with so many stars
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