Late August

The weather is changing. The mountainous temperate
climate
edges toward autumn
There’s a crowded sound in the rattling leaves of the fig
tree
and I think of cities,
though the second fruit, ovarian, purple, splitting to
scarlet
is ready for picking.
The brambles hedging pink villas banked up from the
roadway
burgeon with berries
ripening black, seeded, sweet, which the French don’t
bother to gather,
but sometimes I do,
taking an extra plastic bag in my back pocket, coming
up from the market.
The bedsheets are grimy and wrinkled, but why should
we haul
to the costly laundry
what we’d need for a couple of days? All our
conversations
touch on departure.

— Marilyn Hacker, author of Selected Poems 1965 – 1990

T.S Poetry

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