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Wild Raspberries
The way they do is, they win out over the tiny poplars, scrub pines, gum maples. Bug-eyed with joy, they relax their bellies into the woods. In a year or two, more shade, less something in the soil, they'll digress, an acre away, then another, wherever they go. You can see how people could become obsessed. This afternoon we fan out among cabbage butterflies in the sticky wilderness, pulling off the delicate cups with a loose hand, disengaging them as if they already barely exist, translucent bliss of color. We are really into it, too many berries crushing themselves in the buckets, we go way out of bounds, onto the Bunting's land and farther, looking down, sorting through stems, the odor of leaves, chasing the restless berries begotten and born in this thicket of their own making, making themselves happen, over and over, on their way to someplace else, leaving raspberryless, a little unblessed, these woods.