Blackberries

 Today I read this poem by Mary Oliver:

Blueberries

I’m living in a warm place now, where you can purchase fresh blueberries allyear long. Labor free. From variouscountries in South America. They’reas sweet as any, and compared with theberries I used to pick in the fieldsoutside Provincetown, they’reenormous. But berries are berries. Theydon’t speak any language I can’tunderstand. Neither do I find ticks orsmall spiders crawling among them. So,generally speaking, I’m very satisfied.

There are limits, however. What theydon’t have is the field. The field theybelonged to and through the years I began to feel I belonged to. Well,there’s life, and then there’s later. Maybe it’s myself that I miss. Thefield, and the sparrow singing at the edge of the woods. And the doe that one morning came upon me unaware, all tense and gorgeous. She stamped her hoof as you would to any intruder. Then gave me a long look, as if to say, Okay, you stay in your patch, I’ll stay in mine. Which is what we did. Try packing that up, South America.

I will say it was June 1994

When I woke on an overcast morning 

In the mountains

And I pulled on leggings and a floppy sweater

And walked up the road

To an empty lot that hosted a boulder

Perfectly formed for sitting

Perfectly placed for a view of the river

Yet a bit hidden from view

I sat and said my morning prayers

Then I thought “I’m hungry”

I had left the cabin without eating anything

And then I noticed the blackberry bush

Nestled up next to the rock where I sat

And it was full of juicy blackberries

Which I eagerly picked and enjoyed

A true delight on that summer morning

Unexpected, yet not

When a small need was met by nature