Many Have Written Poems About BlackberriesBut few have gotten at the multiplicity of them, how each berrycomposes itself of many notes, spherical,swollen, fragile as a world. A blackberry is the colour of a painfulbruise on the upper arm, some internal organas yet unnamed. It is shaped to fitthe tip of the tongue, to be a thimble, a dunce capfor a small mouse. Sometimes it is home to a secret green wormseeking safety and the power of surprise. Sometimes it plunksinto a river and takes on water.Fishes nibble it.The bushes themselves ramble like a grandmother's sentences,giving birth to their own sharpness. Picking the berriesmust be a tactful conversationof gloved hands. Otherwise your fingers will bleedthe berries' purple tongue; otherwise thornswill pierce your own blank skin. Best to be on the safe side,the outside of the bush. Inside might lurknests of yellowjackets; rabid bats; other,larger hands on the same search.The flavour is its own reward, like kissing the whole worldat once, rivers, willows, bugs and all, until your swollenlips tingle. It's like waking upto discover the language you used to speakis gibberish, and you have never reallyloved. But this does not matter because you havemarried this fruit, mellifluous, brutal, and ripe.
Bolster, Stephanie. "Many Have Written Poems About Blackberries" Two Bowls of Milk. Toronto: McClelland & Stewart Inc., 1999.