Phibby Venable

A mountain dessert of blackberries
nearby where a river robin plucks
a plump ebony of breakfast

The sun rises swollen and gold
like sweet bread and the pungent scent
of honeysuckle bushes & wind lilies

Oh Italy, the blackberries bleed
a protection from snakebites and boils
They jelly and jam, preseve themselves
in the small, dainty jars on clean shelves

You drink the tea, eat the root
at its midlife stage of perfection
The bramble of fruit finds favor
in the black eyes of your wine

Oh Italy, there are blackberries
behind the white stone houses,
rambling free in the byways of hard rock
Reddish black, and lush in a land
that applauds their wild longings.