The Language of Shade

Under the Pennsylvania Sycamores,
we gathered cadence
as the sun took pictures of our faces,
in flashes between branches.
Our cabin elbowed above the creek,
stilted on clay veins and curly fern.
Slats once painted hurriedly
in noon heat, brushed with army green,
the shade of men.

Remember the raspberry bushes?
Arched canes touched root to tip
and strode to meet us.
Prickled my mother's freckled hands,
I sucked my fat forefingers
and tried to pick as careful as she did.
We picked and bled and laughed, and then
she laid out each berry leaf like a wet dollar.
"See here"? Smooth on the porch railing,
weighted down with stone.
She put her hands on my shoulders.

I was a growing thicket
of admiration and anger.
My breasts were flat fronds,
woody weeds for arms,
ready to make way
through the earth, without regard,
and born to hurt her.
Envious of her grace,
in her shoulders and neck;
long boughs weighted with cares
hidden from me.
I wanted to rest in her cool shade,
but I would not let her know.

The water rolled in a cast iron pan,
as a crow, oiled blue and shimmering
picked berries from the basket.
"We will make tea", she said,
"When the leaves are dry,
under layers of sun."
And we were patient together,
my mother and I,
on the porch until evening came.