I love the truth the way I love picking blackberries,
even as I’m scratched and burned and stung.
I love the tartness between my teeth and tongue,
feeling how old truths hung too long on a bramble go soft
and truth picked too soon is full of acid.
It’s what I love about writing, when I love writing.
How now and then, through the thicket of metaphor
you get a cool sweet berry of truth.
And even when what I want to hear is,
I will love you forever,
Your search has ended,
You are the best! And
You will be young and beautiful FOREVER!
The truth remains a sharp, nourishing comfort,
like these two old drunks, old black, one white, strolling
arm in arm
up my street, commiserating:
“And I tell you I had alla them childrens!”
“Yep, That’s how it was.”
“Alla them childrens!”
I love how it hides itself like that,
between two plain green leaves,
and how much of it there is, like love,
yet never finished, never enough.
from The Largest Possible Life,