Blackberry Picking After Old Michaelmas
       

Winter fell in a heap.
Not snow—dark mud,
stiff molding grass.

Roots couldn't last here.
I became deaf. Berry bushes died.
The last rush of the river pulled us under

before we could scream.
We chewed on seeds while we drowned.

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Copyright © 2013 Jessica Poli All rights reserved
from The Egg Mistress
Gold Line Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission