When the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody owns, I spend

all day among the high
branches, reaching
my ripped arms, thinking

of nothing, cramming
the black honey of summer
into my mouth; all day my body

accepts what it is. In the dark
creeks that run by there is
this thick paw of my life darting among

the black bells, the leaves; there is
this happy tongue.

Added: on October 25th, 2005 at 2:49 PM | Viewed: 6556 times | Comments (1)

Poet: Mary Oliver
Poem: August
Volume: American Primitive
Year: Published/Written in 1983

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