when the flats of winter are seething
with a teething wind and brittle ice
i shutter myself up on the outside and go
excavating through my boxes of summers.
furrowing through the memories so that they fly
up around me, kicking up golden dust and blackberries.
the blackberry summer was the one before the storm
the one before I learned that the small cold hard knobs
boxed in plastic at the store were nothing of what I had tasted
the summer before. the split of men and women became clear
much later, much after the summer of blackberries when I reached
as high as my small arms could muster and grasped fat bundles
of deep oozing purple, eating as many as I picked.
Dreaming of July….