When the blackberries hang <br />swollen in the woods, in the brambles <br />nobody owns, I spend <br /> <br />all day among the high <br />branches, reaching <br />my ripped arms, thinking <br /> <br />of nothing, cramming <br />the black honey of summer <br />into my mouth; all day my body <br /> <br />accepts what it is. In the dark <br />creeks that run by there is <br />this thick paw of my life darting among <br /> <br />the black bells, the leaves; there is <br />this happy tongue.<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/august/
