The woods have so many spaces
and at their boundaries wild raspberries
first hiding shy behind discoloured leaves -
gold-rusty, black-edged as photographs
plucked from incinerator flames - then
one magnificent shooting stem, unashamed
as a bramble, diverting us before we turn
and fall upon the dimpled globes, fumble
soft and yielding fruit, organs deforming
to our pluck, within our palms a little stain
as we hold them out, one by one examining
every treasure, feed them to each other, fingers
to puckered lips, sharing dependency.
So withy-like within my family, woven
and threaded through labyrinths of
sunlight and leaves, filigree of ferns,
wildflowers and affirming seed heads
gatherings of white, shock-haired patience,
summer frays the edges of my leaves,
carbonizes all the sharpness there
and runs in too her rust along their veins
as much as any startling soil deficiency
or pretty signature of fungal flourish.
