Before the fall
Of all the senses,
they say that smell
is most closely tied
to memory;
like Proust with
his madeleines;
like blackberries
in July,
in the park where
my mother watched
with patient indulgence,
as my brother and I
propelled our
small bodies down
the shallow hill
in riotous limbs
and giggles; and
in the waning heat
of early evening,
picked blackberries
for pie in the shade
of the bay trees;
fingers dyed purple
with sugary blood
and bellies filled
on stolen ripe flesh.
Our heads grown
sweetly heavy
with the feat of
a day well met.
We didn't know yet
of the things that would
break us.
Only vines,
pregnant with
sun-warmed fruit;
my father's hand
around mine.
In the glow of
golden hour, we
thought the day
immortal.
Copyright © A.M. Demotte | Year Posted 2023
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