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Salmonberries

Jane Munro
From:   Point No Point


Later, things will get brutish.
I will squat, tug,
swing the mattock, work my fingers
round their knobby tap roots,
fall over backwards, all
to get the god-damned salmonberries
out of the meadow. But today
I pause to see their delicate green dressing
of April's raw flank—as if a blade had scraped
the scales off winter, then wrapped its ache
in seaweed. Salmonberry leaves like an aura
around sinewy branches. Each leaf
points towards the sky. Each flower,
a magenta bell, hangs down. A winter wren,
tail tipped up, extends and extends its song.
I turn back to the house thinking
leaves, flowers, bird—
wrapped in neat bundles like sushi.



Jane Munro's works copyright © to the author.


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