Blackberries still hang in the darkest
creases of the trellis, each dimple swelled
to bursting. The black-eyed Susans are mostly
black, their petals' yellow tresses already rotted.
Goldfinches wander the air, meditate
upon the cone flower's sharp seed, trying
to discern if it's time to leave. This early,
before anyone has opened their doors, I watch
birds sidle up to sunflowers, even cosmos,
while cricket-song comes through the screens
like fog in the belly of this valley. I've been
making jam most of the last month, and the jars
from last night's batch have been talking, lids
sinking toward sweetness with a satisfied
metallic song. The weatherman warns of frost,
so after the air warms this morning, I'll scoop
the last bits of black from the vine's green string,
press the potato-masher, syrup from these berries
rendered into a bowl the color of nightshade.
Other birds will dawdle through, but none
will be dressed as brightly as the finches
who helped greet the dawn. If there's any
consolation in the dying we must do, then let it be
stored on a shelf in a raised glass jar, adorned
with pictures of strawberries and cherries,
grapes and pears, the pale seeds that fix
in the cracks of our teeth, floating in a sticky
infusion we lick from the ends
of our breakfast spoons.
Volume 37, no. 2, 2009