BY HARRY WAITZMAN
The blackberry canes spring up
between pebbles and sand along
the gravel road leading to Parker Pond.
Notice how small the berries are
this year. There must have been a shortage
of rain in spring. July’s been an oven.
I worry about my wife, more bossy
and anxious under her hair coloring.
We snap at each other like turtles.
Kicking stones, I come to a weathered
glacial boulder shaded by a stand of white pine.
I must fall in love with my wife again.