Barefoot, with bowl in hand,
my fingers find the berries
and pick them one by one.
This is a ritual I understand.
The sacrament: a July carnival of colour.
The spirit rises from the land.
This is a rite of rain,
gathered from the night
to open palms of silver green
that catch and wait, then fall on me.
There are other ways.
Their bitter stories - told to bind
and break, to cleave and separate -
are bile.
Their dense stench of rot
has deep and twisted roots.
Their fodder gold.
Full submergence will never
purge them of their sins.
No.
Come.
Comfort me with apples.
Bathe me with open eyes.
