Bramble-scratched hands
stir blackberry tea,
treacled by heaps
of brown sugar.
Gilded hills
roll beneath the
cloud-clotted sky.
Hammock lattice holds us,
a river trill nearby,
hidden under mint
and watercress.
Maple leaves
strain the light,
shading us viridescent.
You tell me how
summer here is your favorite-
but in winter, you want to stagger
up into the fields and do just
as poor great Van Gogh did.
I picture it:
the hills snow-caked,
lifeless, gray,
slithering on for miles in a
dull, metallic splay.
Then, a brisk bang
and a cloak of crows
rising, fleeing, flying,
from your crimson spray.
pm poetry 