We discover together a long bramble wall,
and come back on half a dozen days in August
for me to put in the container I bring and for her to put in her mouth.
No, it’s not a bee, it’s a wasp, I tell her. Bees, wasps -- don’t be afraid.
and asks me if we can go home. My container is full.
for the air into which the fruit rots away.
Yes, they’ll be here again, I say. They’ll vanish and reappear --
through their places in the bramble,
It’s a sorrow bush. It’s a joy bush.
Yes, we'll come back, I answer. I my way I pray we will.
and we’ll fill our hands again with blackberries.
they’ll explain you like the wine that you will one day drink.
the blackberries will be here, like prayers that grow in empty spaces.