August by Mary Oliver

 
 When the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody owns, I spend 

all day among the high
branches, reaching
my ripped arms, thinking 

of nothing, cramming
the black honey of summer
into my mouth; all day my body 

accepts what it is. In the dark
creeks that run by there is
this thick paw of my life darting among 

the black bells, the leaves; there is
this happy tongue.

~ From American Primitive (Back Bay Books,1983)
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What For? by Kim Stafford

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August by Alex Dimitrov