(The Cocoon)
In the still light
summer wanes,
sounds have grown softer
blowing by on cooler breezes
that seem to have spent
more time lost at sea
than their predecessors—
blowing in saltier and announcing
the beginning of the closing acts—
the denoument of the high season.
Ripe blackberries are falling off
the vines under the weight
of their own lusciousness into
the waiting hands of the earth
pulling them down with invisible fingers
trying to taste her own sweet,
nectar-filled creation.
