August
When the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody owns, I spend
all day among the high
branches, reaching
my ripped arms, thinking
of nothing, cramming
the black honey of summer
into my mouth; all day my body
accepts what it is. In the dark
creeks that run by there is
this thick paw of my life darting among
the black bells, the leaves; there is
this happy tongue.
Mary Oliver
Today’s camera walk turned up these beautiful gold and russet blackberry leaves. I am beginning to despair of finding enough autumn poems to get me through the 100 days without boring myself to tears. So, I made an executive decision that the poems do not have to be about autumn. And after all don’t golden blackberry leaves in October evoke the joy of picking and eating ripe blackberries in August?