Berry Tree
The kitchen door barks open
to play in our fenced-in patch
beset with bits of furniture,
bricks laid to rest, a shed,
the stump of a long-dead tree
and bees, hovering about
in a buzz because of some fruit
come to pass over Easter.
The berry tree’s blessed them
again with bitter purple treats,
more each day, sire to a mess
we curse at and sweep away
so as not to fill our tribe
of terriers with eerie aches.
They eat and eat and we beg
the lonesome tree to retire
from the job of giving, to rest
and instead to enjoy the breeze,
to let the rite of Spring pass
unfruitfully. But still it beats us
to the earth, and two or three
get eaten each time we crack
into the warming breeze, life
fighting for a place in our bellies.
Advertisements
