I reach into time with my hand.
Grasp my fingers.
Around it.
Around  the sweetness.
Blackberries.
Sun on my neck.
Sticky smell of fermentation.

It is never as sweet as right there in the field.

Late July
before the peaches have come in.
Poolesville, Md.
The farm.
Where we fed the goats.
and You ran around with chickens.

Fat fingers.
Too sweet.
Red stained.
Picking the berries.
Straight into mouth.

(I didn’t know what this was about until my pen started moving. Written in a workshop with Alix  Klingenberg