Purple-black and plump, still warm from the vine, like dandelion flowers 

or a sacred dusty crow feather in a child’s sweaty hand. I am treasure-seeker, 

willing to brush off soil, cut off moldy rind, reach through brambly thorns, past 

the green, yellow, orange and even red berries, to caress then catch 

the ripe moment, hold it palm open, carry it home with a sing-song of nonsense, 

black berry, white berry, red berry, blueberry, whortleberry, boxberry, foxberry, 

spiceberry, niceberry, juneberry, moonberry, summerberry, youberry, meberry, 

toss it with the finest ingredients, on a tostada with Manchego and arugula, 

chili flakes and Bartlett pear, let the heat slowly rise and coax the juices so it spills 

and tints, then, only then, do I allow myself to taste, juice staining the corners 

of my mouth purple-black like using mom's lipstick when she wasn't looking,

my face a fright of pleasure, the blackberry moments I pick when summer 

has been long enough with us to dry the sodden ground, make me forget 

- almost – 

what has come before.