I found the bush I spoke to you about, its branches
white, bare knuckles where no new shoots grow
and at each tip, a grudging spray of berries.
I picked a sprig, remembering
at four I pinched such berries fretfully,
rolling the stones between my untried fingers.
No give between the berry’s skin
and pit. Today I will not call for the long dead
but think of you, sad
unnamed friend,
before we met,
roaming these streets in February,
noting the hedgerows that separate
each family and bend
with their unforgiving fruit.


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