2017

Late fall there were red huckleberries
in the forest, the which is reserved
for the prelude of summer, but mid
November they appeared, mostly insipid
and not so big; drops of blood that hovered
above the stump culture, in compensation
for their earlier drought termination.

Down the path a couple who drew
near, saying, "There's still some left!"
and more surprised to hear, "These are new",
remarked on the unseasonal warmth of the year
and continued on. Every one of them
had to be plucked, for a reason like to
courtesy, an adult accepting the dandelion

bouquet - only the roles reversed, and alien
rubies for the weeds: like a concept of berries
given in blood, thought-rich, unharried,
out of extenuation, squeezed; like the dry
blessing in the cool church stones - to fruit in days
far ahead - at the hot pilgrimage end;
or like the Christmas blossoms of the haw

from the staff of Joseph of Arimatheia.