Blackberry summer, blackberry Sunday,

Blackberry nipples show through your shirt.

Night rain swollen blackberries hang

from the briars, soft and juicy,

to stainthefingers and tongue.

Two buckets lined with white bakery bags,

we walk throughwet grass to the old fence line,

in early morning's cool air,

buckets swinging, hand in hand.

A few sacrificed to taste,

you bite our first victim and feed me half,

blackberry sugar fills my mouth,

sweeter for being crushed by your lips.

Briars bent by their fruit yield a bucket full

before blackberry clouds chase the sun

from a blue summer sky and a cold thunderstorm wind

finds us in the old hay barn, sitting in the loft door

listening to the cloud's shadow

dance and clatter across the roof.

Desperate dust devils scour the pasture

for damp leaves and sticks.

The sun hidesin thunderstorm twilight.

Silver dollar rain drops drum on the tin roof

and chilled air raises goose flesh on your thighs,

lying in the hay, straw catching in your hair.

Tin rumbles under waves of rain,

timbers groan under the weight,

covering the moan deep in my chest.

I inhale the electric air surrounding you.

Flash and cannon fire lightning

paints you marble white

against white hay in a bleached world,

Color returns to all but your face,

closed eyes and open blackberry lips

sucking air for a heaving breast

White knuckles wrapped in my shirt

pull me over you for cover

and shield from the next bolt.

What comfort can I offer except

good company in our incineration

and blackberries, hand fed to a trembling tongue.

like a pin feathered hatchling in our straw nest.

Let the blood return to your cheeks

and your heart quit pounding like the rain on the roof.

The day will outlive the storm

and we are safe in our loft

to plan a summer afternoon

to wash blackberries for making

blackberry pie and blackberry jam

and sweet blackberry love.