Blackberry vines never give up their lives 
without a fight. Sometimes I donate blood 
to glean a hundred cups, enough for 
my wife’s sumptuous pies and a year’s 
worth of jam.

Twenty years ago when I started picking 
attempts were made at ordered rows,
but it was more an unruly class.
Blackberries will not be confined.
Now it is a green lava flow
consuming sadly what is left of the farm. 

Most people skirt the edges,
but the trophies lie in undiscovered 
country that has not seen human contact 
in years. My back pocket bears pruning 
shears so I can venture into the wild heart   
to cut and tramp down vines, knowing
others will wonder with gratitude
who dared. 

But working, picking back along that path 
is an acrobatic art, a test of balance, 
and this sticker fortress exacts a staggering cost.
My hands, my arms are scratched
like I’ve fought a dozen feral cats. 

Berry sweetness dribbles down my chin.
Purple flowers stain my shirt as overripe
berries burst in my hands and mouth.  
And though my hands are almost covered 
with berry blood, I bear no sorrow.
My bucket assures me
that no matter how wounded I appear
she will be thoroughly pleased.
                        

I love food 
wild from the garden
that must be tamed 
for the table.
It has not known 
imprisonment
in package or can 
and shares
a jubilance of taste, 
a vitality of life
that must be tried.

For some homegrown 
is an alien state 
with first-date anxiety.
                        

I find contentment
being a gentle storm
passing bed to garden bed.  
Earthy sweetness
freshens desert air.
A whip-tailed lizard 
waits his daily anointing.
A hummer darts within the spray
hovers for an iridescent instant.
How she rainbows my day!
It is hard when I reach
the last plant, the last bed;
like a good book
serenity has hemmed me in.
I don’t want to stop or start again.
I linger in the peace
and echoing waves…of life
springing up.