It was Spring–
and the blackberry brambles bloomed
layered on the levee’s ledge.
We dreamed of autumn days
“Blackberry days,” as we cast for bass.
It was July–
and sheltered under blackberry shade,
all the countless catfish that we caught
we filleted and fried with sweet hushpuppies,
yet we dreamed all day of a fall dessert.
It was Fall–
and we backed our boat beneath the brambles
and we picked fresh berries by the 14 buoy,
“three for the bucket and one of the belly,”
then weighed our anchor and sailed from Autumn.
It was December–
as the cold wind blew and the chill rain fell,
we were feasting on fish beside the fireplace,
and we talked of Spring and we dreamed of Summer,
then ate blackberry pie to the pan was empty.