And There Will Be Blackberries

poem written in April 2020, a month into the pandemic here in the USA, when June (when the blackberries would be ready) seemed almost impossibly far away. I intended to do a virtual reading of it one day in July 2020 (you can see that post here), but that never happened because that was the day I was hit by a motor vehicle while riding my bike in the place I call home.

photo taken yesterday. the blackberries are flowering again — and you, and I, are here for them.

and there will be blackberries

on those wild brambles you usually pull as weeds 

but don’t this year 

because there is too much else to distract you;

and there will be baby birds 

in nests you now see for the first time 

because you sat on a bench 

on the side of your house for hours one day

when the crisis first hit home 

and watched cardinals snatch dryer lint to build them;

and there will be sudden peals of laughter

from children playing (playing!) 

when you are staring at the ceiling 

and thinking about how heavy you feel,

which will give you just enough strength

to get up and put your socks on;

and there will be a subtle, almost imperceptible shift 

from spring to summer,

and you will notice it this year 

because you will be hyper aware 

of how some living things will thrive and others will die;

maybe even you.

and yet, 

there is some small consolation in knowing that 

because of you,

there will be blackberries.

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