Folkloric

I took a walk yesterday
with my favorite walking companion
and we reminded each other
and agreed
that the smell of blackberries
just past their peak of fullness,
hanging so heavy on the vine
that they fall to juice in your hand
when you try to pick them
and baking slowly
in a sun that is already setting,
earlier than it was setting just last week
is the most beautiful,
heartbreaking,
and utterly golden smell
of the time that is
Late Summer,
Early Fall.

We walked,
taking deep, gasping breaths,
cherishing this scent
of mourning and thankfulness and memory,
and then we waded through the brambles
and gathered enough of these late berries
to bake one more blackberry cobbler.

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