The brief bushes hang heavy with fruit
that stains the plucking fingers red
the baskets fill and bleed
our mouths fill with pulp and dark, tart juice
our dyed eyes dart, bright birds
intent upon their brilliant foraging
thorns sketch on arms the face of theft
bees prick through branches webbed
and drooping, dusty, still as cloud
II
By evening, when recalled at last
each berry wore a gown of fine gray fur
we left them in the darkening grass
but what we took and threw away was not
what we desired, what we intended not weeping
baskets, bare branches, the aches we kept
but bending, rising, sweating, resting
we wanted day’s green gathering together
the satisfaction of a mislaid need