Blackberries

Blackberry canes surrounded my garden.
An apple tree, perfectly formed by years
of careful pruning and spacing,
presided over young pear trees,
copper-wire-adorned,

protected by interlocked thorns.
We wove them into the fences around the trees;
rabbits like green wood almost as much as they liked
the shoots in the beds. Pests stayed out,
and no one got free bloody-red blackberries
unless they paid for them in blood.

Wineberries tangled at the other end,
a gateway of red-shimmering vines,
a gauntlet for bare feet to run.

We wove a kind of protection from the thicket,
painted our lips with berry blood,
gorged on sun-warm spoils while we rested
our cut and tired feet. Summer was decided
by what we could eat.