Raspberry Picking

The invitation came as a surprise.

The old philosopher had buttoned his coat, gathered a sieve,

and was waiting for me by the farm door.

Rain hung in the air, dappled sunlight struck leaves

through dispersed and fattened Normand clouds.

Down the overgrown road, around the bend

to the raspberry wall, we began our slow walk.

Three years ago I asked the philosopher's wife

to read a text called The Smell of Apples

which described how the fruit, kept in old crates

in the cellar reminds us of a past we no longer deserve.

I did not know that this was the last time I would see her.

Nor did I know that apples paved the philosopher's childhood

and their existence, that the road to their house

overspilled with these two fruits,

until here for the first time, I saw, smelled, and picked them.

Now she is two years gone and

the philosopher's steps are steady, but slowing.
His hand rises to gently press the hair at the back of his head.

His voice is ceremonious, and deeply toned.

You have to look, he says, for the berries that fall

from the vine at a light touch - this is how to know they are ready.

He shows where the best ones are, les plus belles.

He brings the bowl closer as my greedy hands become
too full. It ripens with their deep color.

The only sound is of his hands pushing away leaves.

We lift, duck, and gently pull.

You always find more when you look below.

There is the occasional surprise of a wild strawberry, tiny and brazen,

armed with more seeds than flesh.

He teaches me this:

You have to collect enough for the family table,

but also, to tip into the kind neighbor's bowl.

Above all, you must leave enough on the vine

for tomorrow, and trust that they will not

be ruined by the rain.

Later, we gather at the table. A little way off

the image of his wife smiles from a frame.

You have to hope, believe and smile, and work with this, it says.

Our spoons rattle the plates with the delight

of the raspberries, their deep color dashed across the white.

The house is quiet except for this sound.

I accuse myself of loving fruit too much, but here it is:

our acts reduce to small movements, our pleasures, small pleasures.

There is not much else above the tiny pleasures of the earth.

We do not know tomorrow. I can only hope that

tomorrow I will find myself on my knees again, in search of more.