Blackberry Bushes in Oak Creek

How sweet it would be

to pass every blackberry bush by.

To smell the fruit ripening in the sun,

to savor the flavor inside my mind

(better than the taste on my tongue.)

There once was a day

when you and I

fell into the thorns

and made blackberry pie.

Spent hours like our pockets

were heavy with time,

climbed ladders up through the brambles

and into the sky.

Got scratches to match

the purple blood of the fruit

and of each other

and we all became

blood brothers

with the blackberries we plunked

into white plastic buckets,

transplanting the weight.

Buried them in butter

and sugar and flour,

a little tomb to bake.

(A sweetness so fleeting):

the moment before

some of that blackberry juice (unassuming)

would bubble over and burn in the oven,

becoming just

smoke.