Raspberries

^{for Carolyn Micklem}

It is the season of berries,
which could mean summer—
in Chile, Mexico, or Jane Street
where the creamy smell of biscuits
is Virginia to me. Dear one,
in your cotton turtleneck,
white as the hair-cloud
on your chirping head,
you’re the best brunch
hostess. You soften the butter,
lambent warmth, sunshiny in the overcast.
Around the handle of your gentle kettle
you tie the strings of the tea bags, afloat
inside in their darkening infusion,
buoyed by threads that tug
I am here, not too far away.
I am to pull you back to shore.
And you let us set the table
in the patio, in the back garden
because it is seasonal, a light sweater
would do, as we pour honey, conjuring
the invisible bees. You ladle the eggs,
open-faced, their yolks aglow miniature
planets, on my plate next to a biscuit
like a bivalve, the salad crisps
as autumnal air. Our talk rises,
blue steam, radiator heat, buds
burgeoning from spindly branches
while you listen, dispense, and sing
Aah, there’s more sweetness! And we head in
to the sink. You tell me to run the water
gently over the cup of raspberries.
They are so delicate, you say, mere
force of the faucet can wither them
into pulp. Therefore, as you’ve shown,
my fingers and hand transform into a sieve,
showering into cleanliness the acorn-shaped
lantern-redness with expert tenderness.