At nightfall, we followed the path past
the crabapple where blackberries thread
their thorns into thicket walls that prick
our bare feet and snatch at our wrists
as we pluck the sweet sun-warm fruit
each August. The last few fireflies blinked
from the bushes that border the edge
of aspens rooted in the soil of someone’s
long-overgrown farmland. As a girl I’d trace
the posts that still fence the pine grove,
wondering whose hand had hewn them.
Beyond the treeline, the earth slopes
to meet the creekbend where the swell
of last week’s rainstorm sang over stones
in the darkness. Within the hidden folds
of my mind, new synapses stretched
like vines winding a way to light. Overhead,
the sky curved toward the tall tangle
of meadowgrass. I said to my brother,
“It’s been too long since I looked
at the stars.” He said, “They were worried
about you.” And the aspen leaves stirred
and the crickets buzzed and the creek
sang over the stones in the darkness.
By Claire Buck