Gleaning what is left of the harvest is an old art to the poor.
Really, more should come
from me—more time on my hands—
to pick the raspberries swelling
under the beech trees
into ripe blisters of nourishment.
The juice runs down
my son's face. He is only five, but already
he knows a ripe raspberry is his favourite.
He passed by the row of canes,
icy and silent in the winter once.
He stretched his small hand,
and saw one small left-over berry,
petrified by frost. Scavenged by a tiny palm,
with the hope that there would be raspberries now,
or a drop of blood would fall to the snowand turn into a forgotten raspberry.