You don’t even have to open your mouth
to call sugar to this world.
The berries tumble towards you, curious,
as large dark eyes.
You don’t need to make the ironweed stalks
purple the meadow, the bramble
of storm clouds break open
over the valley, the summer bloom
into monarchs and milkweed. You can’t
force the woman in the clapboard house
who’s lived her whole life here
to call you—come here Sugar— from the road
to sit in a rocking chair
on her porch, swatting away horseflies
while she tells you the long story
of blackberry picking on the hillside,
preserving fruit with her grandmother.
Finally, your words
crystalize in late summer, say grace,
say faith, say courage, say love,
gathered overnight in the ditches, with
ironweed, blackberries, forget-me-not.
