Spiders lash vine to pliant vine.

My mother and I comb through leaves,

filling our plastic buckets with red.

As we gather, my mother whispers,

when you hear the voice of the Lord

you will hear my voice,

and forages deeper

into the lush tangle.

***

Rinsing the fragile, swollen

berries in a bronze colander.

My little feet daubed with mud

tracked from door to sink.

My mother’s cheek brushed

with a streak of mud.

She crushes the tart flesh,

blending it with sugar and pectin.

The living room hush draws me,

the itch of sun on my face,

I immerse myself in cushions,

anxious of what will find me.