Blackberry Picking - Sandra Anfang

[Larry Robinson]

Blackberry Picking
 
I climb the highest hill at first light.
The village opens its ears to surround sound:
a lone lamb bleating in the distance,
the yodel of a train whistle
cutting through low-lying fog,
a single rooster arching its neck in greeting.
 
I climb to coax new berries from their beds
guarded by mammoth thorns,
surprised to see such early ripening.
Drupelets liquefy in my greedy fingers,
compound eyes reflecting light,
nectar for birds and damselflies.
I stop to lick them between lootings.
 
Many are still crimson,
hard as nipples on a winter beach.
The blackest wink just out of reach.
I lean into the fanged hedge to
welcome the puncture,
the sting of tiny needles on my palm,
and remember the lessons of pain.
 
My hands rehearse the choreography of picking.
Twisting the berries from their stems with a rolling motion
I fill the Ball jar bit by bit,
mind lost in the brilliant blackness of jam,
tuning into the alchemy of pectin,
filtering the sugar down to its substrate,
dreaming of the crop’s resurgence 
fuller with each coming year.
 
How I love the hunt and struggle,
bloody palms,
purple stains,
the hard won victory,
the first of many sojourns to the berry trail.
My new practice of beginner’s tongue.

	- Sandra Anfang