blackberries

august 
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.
               ~ mary oliver

my mother,
sarah jeannette wilson lingwood,
sallie, to those who truly knew her..
and most everyone did -
was born august 18th, 1916 ~
if she were alive today,
she'd be 104..

she adored blackberries..
picking blackberries,
eating blackberries..
eating more blackberries..

august ~ the month that brings
that dark bounty to our lips,
the dog days nectar we prize so high..

just such a one o so warm, lush summer day..
in august, of course,
sallie was out along the hedge
that trailed our yard -
meditating on the benefits
of her berry-picking..
the highlight of having nothing better to do..
and surely, what would be better than plucking blackberries
off the cranky, brambly, scritchity bushes..?
her straw hat covering her alabaster skin from the sun..
~ never touched by the rays of Ra..
when she took a tumble..a slip and jumble..
her precious bucket of gems cascading hither and yon
and her olde bones jouncing  and bouncing to the ground..
she must have been 90 or thereabouts..

i was not in the neighborhood,
the neighbors were not in the neighborhood..
she was no longer limber and nimble
at getting herself up and at it again..
her hat askew but on her head..
berries near enough to nibble..
"i'll rest a spell till i've had my fill
then muster my strength for uprightness"

if one does not master one's circumstances,
one is bound to be mastered by them..
                        ~ the gentleman in moscow

which was at least an hour or so before i arrived ~
popping out of the car, heading to the house
i hear this cheerfully meek and meager call..
honey!

did someone just say honey?
dianna dear..!
~ for she always and only ever called me dianna ~
where was her voice coming from?
i looked behind me..
to the front porch..
around the corner of the house..
finally tracing the call
to the ditch by the patch..
and there -
so merry and berry filled -
was my mother.

o holy mackeral (andy)!

we scrambled about the brambles
dancing a tango among the tangles
weaving a wound-up upraise until she was on her feet..
and although she was hot..
and although she was blue and black
and bruised and scratched and scraped
and although she asked for water..
she went right back to picking
that beloved juicy fruit of august..

happy birthday, mama!

allow yourself to trust joy and embrace it.
you will find you dance with everything.
                        ~ ralph waldo e.