Blackberry Winter
Dwaine Rieves


 
To belong, to contribute, to have
been and still be--

     the dark morning
     birds are beyond squawking.

Rain—joyless as a bad
decision—has finally stopped.

     Caladium fronds hang
     spineless over the pot’s blue lip.

Deep down, what’s not
lifeless is suffering.

     Only ferns rejoice
     in their damp residue. They tower

like spiders seeking success
in drier corners, which flies

     and precocious gnats covet
     for similar reasons.

If only our years didn’t bondage
our bodies like celestial tasers.

     Spiders simply follow
     their needs, ferns their nature.

A horsefly does what it must. Even big
death is inconsequential.

     Of failure or death,
     birds could care less.

They go blameless
as weather.

     Work is a warbled throat,
     an appointment

we make to keep
the daylight coming. 









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About the Author: Dwaine Rieves is a pharmaceutical consultant from Smithville, MS. His book, When the Eye Forms, won the ​Tupelo Press Prize for Poetry. He can be reached here.

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