RASPBERRIES


Fall crop:
juicy druplets,
carmine thimbles,
little beehives, ruddy nipples
dangle from the arching branches,
fall lightly into our cupped hands.
Just a touch uncouples
these plump droplets
from their cores.
The centers are hollow;
our tongues just fit.
Crushed in our mouths,
the berries turn to wine;
even the bees
are drunk on this redness.
O September!
When the rest of the garden
dwindles to meager,
when the trees begin
their strip to the bones,
you come to fruit
bearing rubies on your canes,
and we're on our knees,
stained in crimson,
our garnet fingers
praising the earth.
    
published in Barbara Crooker: Selected Poems