In early October, after the frost,
but before the long white weight of snow,
wade waist-deep in the raspberry thicket,
when the air is cold and the sun is low
and there is yet gold on the mesa’s hills,
all glitter and tremble and shine, and hiding
beneath the still green leaves are swollen red berries,
few enough that to find one feels like earning a prize,
but abundant enough to lure you deeper in,
despite the brambles, the snags on your sweater,
the scratches into your hands. There is no way
to be anywhere but here. The day moves no faster
than shadows can grow and hunger is a thing
that can be sated. The light meets you
exactly where you are and gives itself to you
and asks nothing in return.