The ones that hide out
Til late July know their mission
Will succeed—that they will instigate
A smoky smoothness in the mouth,
Compel the body to relax
Into a remembered time of endless
Feasts in a sun-cooked field.
The engorged drupelets, their shine
Lost in soft blackness, swell
In summer light, and the berry
Comes willingly, without a tug
Upon the vine, without any hint
Of strife, spreading its pleasure
To the patient adorer of age.