Picking Black Currants At Dusk

They are themselves like droplets of night,

the accumulation of sweet and bitter essences,

ripened through the day, destined to end.

All ripening ends, and then rot.

But desserts first, if we’re lucky.

They grow on a hillside, above big boulders

on which I stand to reach the thicket.

It’s easy but getting too cold to be fun,

For now it is night, or nearly night,

and they, a whimsical harvest—

unnecessary, if good for you.

I am getting rich and keep picking a while,

careful not to fall prematurely;

then at last, a hop to get off the boulders,

down without spilling my pail.