Like plucking fat blackberries off
a still-loaded bush in September,
putting most into a dented colander
to take inside to someone you love,
who could use some sweetness
on the tongue,

mindful to pop one into your own
eager mouth, too, here and there,
greedily licking your stained fingers,
knowing this short season is
passing quickly,

that it won’t come again like this,
that you’ll never pick blackberries
on another summer afternoon
without thinking of this—

wondering if she’ll awaken when
you bring her a berry, if she’ll
be able to let it melt in her swollen
mouth, swallow a flavor she once
loved, remembering cobblers she
cobbled together with her capable
hands,

baked to bubbling perfection
and served to people like you,
beloveds all, tending her
in the now of this sweet
moment.