RIPE
Dead end.
This dirt road
at daybreak.
One window
burns yellow
as fruit flesh.
The gauze
clutch of spider webs
almost
but not quite
shines. Where is the sun?
Where the woman who lately leaned
over her wash basin,
daring the cold water
splash her eyes shut?
She does
not answer
anyone’s name.
Have her feet
come unstuck
from the kitchen floor
where she stood
most of last
night at her stove
spinning
wild berry
juice into
length upon
length of the sweetest
black thread?
(from my BLACK SHAWL, LSU Press, 1992)
black thread?
(from my BLACK SHAWL, LSU Press, 1992)
I've been cleaning out old computer files and came across my Black Shawl backup poems, among them this poem. I immediately thought of our elderberry bush, with its several bouquets of deep purple berries. Elderberry jelly? Yes, I've made that. Doesn't compare to blackberry, though, which is what I was thinking about when I wrote this.
3 comments:
Kay, This is a delicious poem. I've had two large Elderberry clusters that have been begging me to do something with them. Honestly, It is the first summer
I've ever seen them growing here. It took a while for me to identify them. I am sorry now they were not saved. How about Elderberry wine? Is there a recipe?
Lovely -- spinning that thread...
Nancy, I'm sure there's a recipe for elderberry wine. I'll be posting a recipe for elderberry sauce I used on pork chops just a little while back.
Vicki, I remember my grandmother spinning the thread while stirring mayhaw jelly, or rather juice. It had to spin a thread to signal it was ready. I could never quite get the touch for it.
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