Blackberries

Packed in this segmented fruit is a kind of truth
peculiar to jellies and jams
and to the times
I ran through Oregon weather,
unleashed in rain.
In those days I believed in resurrection.
 

It was first when
we came back for a visit to the coast,
when you were just showing with our only child,
that I saw again
the sawmill village of my youth.
It was not the same
 

and today I find myself asking
if we ever shared
enough parts of our fragmented lives
to assure a wine
dry and full as the blackberry wine
that we drank that day.
 

I find blackberries here in the store.
They don’t ship well
and I’m forced to make do with the frozen.
Still they make good pies
and the truth drips to burn in the oven.
 

I extend my days from one berry season to the next.
I do not put store
in the promise of life after death.
I have tried that twice.
 

My life will contribute its flavor
when the fruit is ripe.