It's dogwood winter here...and it will be blackberry winter later in the spring. This reminder of winter, while the evidence of spring is all around, is a bit jarring.
Spring will soon turn into summer. Like winter, summer will seem that it will never end. Hot, steamy, stormy, dry, wet, muggy, bright Season, endless and long. Yet, ripeness will happen, season will begin again to change. And then, after the brief sunset of fall, winter will return and never seem to end--again.
Someone recently mentioned the poet Galway Kinnell to me. I just read this of his today:
I love to go out in late September
among the fat, overripe, icy, black blackberries
to eat blackberries for breakfast,
the stalks very prickly, a penalty
they earn for knowing the black art
of blackberry-making; and as I stand among them
lifting the stalks to my mouth, the ripest berries
fall almost unbidden to my tongue,
as words sometimes do, certain peculiar words
like strengths or squinched,
many-lettered, one-syllabled lumps,
which I squeeze, squinch open, and splurge well
in the silent, startled, icy, black language
of blackberry -- eating in late September.