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Said: Poets love blackberries, because
he thought it and the thought, when it occurred,
excited him so much, he thought it
more than once. Said: It was hot that day;
it hadn’t rained, but if you think
picking blackberries is hard work, you
(unless you pick them every day) don’t
know
what hard work is.
Said: Suppose I thought now
of their persistence, how as a child I
marvelled
at roots dug in (like fingers, one might,
if one were careless, say) to the sheerest sides
of mountains; of their danger: snakes
love blackberries too. Said: Often,
these days
I find my fingers stained with ink
exactly
the color of the juice of blackberries.
Said: I love blackberries. I have much to say.
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